


To Leap Into His Arms

by estike



Series: The Shadow In His Eyes [1]
Category: All for One - Takarazuka Revue, All for One ~d'Artagnan and the Sun King~
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 10:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12862728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estike/pseuds/estike
Summary: Stupid, violent, obsessive. These three words would easily describe Bernardo, which certainly does not help when he finds out about his uncle's thorough interest in d'Artagnan, France's best, and favourite. Jealousy is ugly.That is more than enough for Bernardo to want to clasp his hands around the man's throat, and either choke the living hell out of him, or prove himself in a fair fight. But it cannot be done so easily. Many bad decisions later, Bernardo finds himself in the thick of it, confined in a stay, laced up in a gown with an itchy, lacy collar, and in a big, big trouble.---Re-uploadedslightlyimproved version of the same story.





	1. The Musketeer-bribery

When his uncle first says he should go and keep an eye on the musketeers, he surely does not mean this. Truth to be told, Bernardo also doesn’t mean it, at all. He cares about the musketeer case, of course, because his uncle seems to be invested in it. But he is the captain of the guardsmen, also. He will not go out of his way to do things on his own when he has his men just for that.

On his orders, Claude and Robert mingle with the musketeers and handpick the most unsatisfied ones for him.

“Find the most jealous ones,” Mazarin tells his nephew, who then forwards the message to his men, pretending all the wisdom comes from him. “They will be the easiest to persuade when it comes to turning against their own. Especially if there is the promise of money as a prize. Men’s tongues get loose when two things are involved… Money, and women. One, or the other will make them speak, without mistake.”

Bernardo doesn't know much about that (he has no eyes for women, and he has money more than enough already) but he trusts Mazarin more than anyone.

He wishes he could sound like his uncle all the time without needing to steal phrases from his mouth, word to word: there is that respectable, calm quality about him. Any time you talk to Mazarin – even if you are his nephew – it feels like you are playing a game, and he knows damn well he is winning, but he is still waiting for the perfect time to reveal everything. Sooner or later, he would assert dominance over you. With a single phrase, a well-timed laugh, or even as much as the tap of his fingers. 

It is just as exciting as it is nerve-racking. Bernardo does not necessarily like to feel like a fool, even when it is the Mazarin who plays with him. He respects his uncle and fears him with love, but he would give an arm to be the mirror of him, face and wits. Philippe favours their uncle a lot more outwards and inwards, too. It seems like Bernardo is the black sheep of the family: while all the Mancini siblings have the same, sparkly black eyes, his hair was also a curly, thick curtain of black hair. Growing up, he was a picky eater, and often refuse to eat the meat he was given with his meals. Philippe says that made him look and act like a corpse. It is not true.

Philippe doesn’t only favour their uncle more, he also follows him with more ease. Although, one still cannot say that he can always keep up with the man. Bernardo… is simpler, to put it lightly. He his hot-headed and tactless, and he only knows how to fight and swear. And the worst of all, he is obsessive. He is obsessed with satisfying his uncle. He is obsessed with winning. He is obsessed with showing everyone how good he is.

But you see, it is not just a simple delusion. Bernardo is good. He is more than good: for one, his obsessiveness took him as far as to become Italy’s best swordsman. ... For another, it also took him as far as standing there behind a dressing screen, confined by a stay, wrapped in a chemise, heavy garments, and an elaborate lace collar suffocating him by the neck.

It starts with his uncle’s interest, which piques his.

“First and foremost, find out more about this d’Artagnan,” he says. “Out of all of them, he is the most dangerous one. So, I am interested in that man the most. You can leave the rest.”

“But uncle… They say this Athos of the musketeers is an old friend of Beaufort. Should we not get rid of him first?”

Mazarin gives him a warm but pitiful look and he regrets asking anything. He still thinks he is right, but he can already see that he isn’t, except he cannot pinpoint where he went wrong.

“Athos has been an excellent friend to Beaufort the past ten years. So excellent, he hasn’t even sent him as much as a secret visitor all these years. ... I kept an eye on that. It would be to my greatest surprise if this Athos ever did anything at all, in his entire life. He learned to lay so low, he is practically dead anyway. But d’Artagnan… He cannot be avoided, rumours about him crop up in Paris from day to day. What do those contacts of yours say about him?”

“Those two are brothers.” At least Robert tells him so, and he tries to flaunt to his uncle how thorough his research has been. “Not all those rumours seem to be kind to d'Artagnan. As for the brothers, they themselves seem to have a distaste for d’Artagnan. By this time, he is too successful and beloved.”

“Other’s success always feels like dust in one’s eyes,” Mazarin thinks. Bernardo is not really listening to what he says at that time. He hears it, to be sure, but he is not listening. “So now we know that his musketeers would happily sell him out. The only question whether d’Artagnan would betray his own, too. And that… we can only find out if we ask him directly.”

Due to Mazarin’s interest, Bernardo knows … way too much about d’Artagnan, even before they would first see each other. He knows where to find his abode in Paris. He knows the name of his valet. (It’s Planchet, by the way, if you want to test him.) He interviews multiple musketeers about him – so he knows of his unparalleled Gascon pride, his father Bertrand, his history with the musketeers. Even without meeting him once, he would already recognize his turn of phrase… Everything about d’Artagnan is known to him, perhaps apart from the way his nose is hooked, or how he wears the blue uniform of the musketeers.

Oh yes. And how he stinks.

When he steps into the antechamber of the practice room, his nose can already pick up the stink of Gascony. The smell of the sun, mixed with the rich, craggy scent of the earth. He cannot even see d’Artagnan properly yet, but his stomach is already turning.

And then he is finally led in, and he looks even more ridiculous than the king’s colourful harlequins. The difference between the two? The harlequins were there to be ridiculous.

On the other hand, d’Artagnan is there to perform a fencing match with His Majesty, and for that, looking like the fool he does, is anything but useful. It only takes a look to notice that he is an outsider. He is dressed poorly, in his ill-fitting musketeer uniform. Sun-tanned, lanky, awkward. He stumbles on his words and forgets the proper formulas when introducing himself, and to make it worse, he also yells, perhaps to over-compensate for everything he is lacking. (Manners, that is.) Let us not even mention the fact that he does not know which knee to bend.

This is the man his uncle wants? To _replace_  him with? Bernardo thinks that to himself, his anger mixed with bitter feelings. 

Mazarin never said anything about replacement but one can never feel too secure about his position when it came to the Cardinal. His interest in d'Artagnan was enough for Bernardo to already feel threatened, his pride wounded. Why on earth would Mazarin want a musketeer for himself otherwise? 

D’Artagnan has not even looked at him yet, and they are already rivals. It is unfair of his uncle to put Bernardo up against such an inadequate man. Surely, he was not the most eloquent man himself – but growing up with proper, formal education in the capital did give him a solid foundation to build on. Bernardo can at least display the bare minimum they demand of him, although he likes to greatly overestimate his own abilities when it comes to politeness.

He looks at this d’Artagnan he knows so thoroughly already for the first time. 

Now he gets to watch the way his nose is crooked, how his eyes twitch a little when he feels nervous about presenting himself in front of the court. He gets to observe his motions, his agility, his strength. He also sees the recklessness he can afford in a fight. Oh, and note the mouth he has on him when he talks to His Majesty. 

Bernardo can clearly understand what they talk about when they call d’Artagnan France’s best. Well… that is because they have not seen much of Bernardo, yet. And it is easy to marvel at the brutality and brusqueness of the countryman for to those who haven’t been acquainted with such features, it may seem exotic. For Bernardo, it is nothing more than insufferable. He taught a lesson to many a d’Artagnan before. He does not seem to be a lot different than them. Maybe… apart from the gaze he gives to the king. 

Before Bernardo can have a thorough look at those eyes, the performance is cut short by d’Artagnan himself. He returns the king’s thrust with incredible force and has him sprawled across the floor, half broken. The attendants run to the king, but Bernardo is interested in something else. He is worried about the king, of course. From early on, his uncle taught him that their most precious treasure was His Majesty. He remembers Mazarin always saying: as long as they are able to shield the king from everything, they may enjoy welcoming arms in France. 

But the king has enough people to attend him already. He does not need one more worried face. 

So, Bernardo goes to the root of the problem. Is this the man his uncle may want to replace him with?

“You stupid bitch.” So much for his manners, too. He is hot-headed above all, in the end. It only takes him to see red, and all the filth is ready to come out of his mouth, even before the king. Self- restraint is quaint: but even if it is so, Bernardo has none. “Just what did you think you were doing!?” 

D’Artagnan only looks at him for a moment and no longer, then turns back towards the king and his entourage to give them a pitiful excuse. He doesn’t hear a single word of it. How dare… How dare he not acknowledge him at all! He called out to d’Artagnan, so rival can finally meet rival and settle who deserves the Cardinal’s affections more. 

Instead of that, he gets a glance - d’Artagnan practically looking through him before he would turn back to explain himself in pathetic despair. Bernardo imagined standing face to face with this man many times now. This little swordsmanship expert, whose heroic deeds spread to all corners of France. Whose name is well-known across all districts of the Capital. Bernardo is looking down at him now, as he kneels and begs for forgiveness. And yet, Bernardo is the one being ignored.

Anger burns both his throat and his eyes.

“Stand!” He commands d’Artagnan’s attention back to himself. They are not finished yet. They haven’t even started. He will be acknowledged. He will show it: both to d’Artagnan, and his uncle!

He introduces himself, as one would give his name on the imaginary battlefield, along with his status: so d’Artagnan can know what sort of man he will be destroyed by. It is more than incredibly rude, not to even pay a glance to someone when he is speaking to you. And yet, this is exactly what d’Artagnan does. It only angers Bernardo even more.

“For you to do that as a musketeer, above all,” he spits, both trying to draw his uncle and d’Artagnan’s attention back to himself. “Do you forget who you owe your loyalty to?”

Finally, this strikes a chord with d’Artagnan, and he steals his attention for a moment. This is it, Bernardo thinks. Here I stand. You will see me now, and you will acknowledge me for who I am. You little swordsmanship-expert.

It doesn’t last long. Two sentences and the king runs short on patience: with a temper perhaps even shorter than Bernardo’s he threatens to disband the musketeers on a whole before he would storm out of the chamber for good. D’Artagnan is discarded – his instructorship was so short-lived, he did not even make it through the trial lecture. For some reason, this does not give any satisfaction to Bernardo. 

Later, he finds that his bad feelings were not uncalled for. 

Even though the king abandoned d’Artagnan, Mazarin still retains an interest. (Right, after all, Bernardo forgot in the first place that they invited him here to test his loyalty – to the musketeers and not to the king.) 

To his horror, his uncle reveals that he wants to invite d’Artagnan to join his own guardsmen: and serve beside Bernardo. He feels as replaceable as outraged. For this countryman to make it into a position so close to his own! Bernardo fought for this, with teeth and claws. And here goes d’Artagnan, fresh from the countryside, and gains close to the same respect as Bernardo cultivated with his uncle for more than a decade. They have to draw the line somewhere and this should be it.

He protests the same time as d’Artagnan. 

“Uncle. My men have utmost loyalty to you, and above all, His Majesty. I will not be able to get along with a man, who behaved so insolently and risked injuring the king. Even though, the musketeers were once supposed to be the ones defending him.” 

Mazarin wants to answer something to this, but d’Artagnan is quicker. Finally, he looks at Bernardo, when he speaks to him. His cheeks are tinted with a colour similar to the brocaded wallpaper behind them: cinnabar. 

“You should not evaluate my loyalty to the king by a single fencing match, and an unfortunate misstep.” 

“If you want to serve His Majesty, there cannot be any oversights.” 

They look at one another for a while, Bernardo and d’Artagnan both flushed from anger and frustration, until his uncle presents him with the choice again. Without doing as much as to think about it for longer than a second, d’Artagnan refuses. He leaves with his musketeer pride, his hooked nose high in the air. Bernardo knuckles his fists until the blood runs out of his fingers.

“Uncle… do you truly want that man among mine?” he asks later. Mazarin’s plot confused him enough to forget that bringing a new instructor to His Majesty was not one of their priorities. 

“I do not know where I want that man yet, Bernardo,” Mazarin tells him, and patiently so. “But after today, at least I know where he stands: and it is with his own. Perhaps some of his friends willingly sold him out but it seems like most of the musketeers still have some honour.” 

“You respect him for that?” 

“Make no mistake, my love, I am not happy about it.” Mazarin takes a deep breath and lowers his voice, so people surely would not overhear them. “If you cannot beat someone, it is best to join them. But no matter how frustrating his behaviour is, loyalty is something we must value in this world. Even if it is something that proves to be a hindrance for us, for now.” 

Bernardo understands approximately nothing of this. He can hardly show respect for someone who stands against everything his uncle represents. If someone stands up against his uncle, his king, or Bernardo himself, he will fight them without holding back or showing respect. After all, his uncle keeps telling him, there will be always unbearable tension in this country as long as both the musketeers and the guardsmen exist. 

“The court is divided,” he always says. “His Majesty is young and his will is fragile. Surely, the musketeers want to use this to their own means, and influence him and the regent, with the pretext of protecting her. Ever since I am here, and you are in charge of the guardsmen, however, His Majesty is the safest.” 

Bernardo believes this with great fervour. The musketeers do nothing but stand in the way of a more peaceful royal court, imbued with love. If the musketeers just stopped existing on a whole… 

“Now… this d’Artagnan will surely suspect some contra-musketeer activity in the near future,” his uncle turned to him again, seeming a little concerned. “And if he does so, he might feel necessary to take measures. And even if he suspects nothing, he seemed disdainful, when he left. It is to be expected, but not desirable.”

“Are you perhaps concerned about him?” 

“Is the musketeer-bribery going smoothly?” Bernardo only nods as an answer. “Perfect. I have no reason to be concerned, then. It only means he is determined to go down with his own. Send your men to the Tavern to The Chevalier, where the musketeers always gather and go forward with the original plan. Will you, my love?” 

Still cranky, he meets Marie Louise in the hallways, in a heated conversation with Marie Anne and Philippe. Bernardo simply wants to pass by his siblings at first, but he catches some fragments of the conversation. It is more of a rant, passionately performed by Marie Louise than a conversation, per se. All of the Mancini siblings were born malicious, but only half of them were also angry and aggressive on top of that. Marie Louise and her little brother, Bernardo, are surely both.

“How dare! To hurt and demean our precious lord like that! He may seem weak and fragile at first glance, but does this d’Artagnan even know how exhausting it is to dance ballet!? Well, _I_ know. I am made to dance the stupid Sun King ballet for hours on end, only to make him happy.” 

Bernardo stops, lured into the conversation, once he realizes that it is solely about denouncing d’Artagnan. He joins with his own parts (how dare he not notice him!) until Marie Anne rolls her eyes, having lost all interest, and bids a good evening to them. 

“It is a shame,” Bernardo continues his monologue, picking up from Marie Louise, “that uncle would ever consider adding such a man to his personal guard.” 

“If only he realized that he needs nobody apart from you,” his sister says, not because she means it but mostly to calm him down. 

This makes him think. Mazarin told him to get the musketeer-bribery into action – but what if it could wait a night? Bernardo thinks that his uncle is smart but he is overlooking one thing: Athos, whom he warned him about earlier. Surely, for ten years, he did nothing. Perhaps he is waiting for the perfect time until Mazarin has his guard off. And that time would be right now. 

Tonight, d’Artagnan surely goes to retire to his own abode, and lament the loss of the king’s favours instead of celebrating with his friends. Marie Louise is right. If only he could somehow make Athos or his closest friends talk, he could show Mazarin that he was wrong in seeking d’Artagnan out. Bernardo is a million times smarter. And stronger, too. Although, he will have to prove it another time.

He decides not to give the orders to his men Mazarin asked for. A day later should not interfere with anyone’s plans.

Men (musketeers) do anything for money and women. Those whose tongues do not get loosened by money will chatter freely around pretty women. Isn’t that what his uncle said? Well, they found out that Athos does not want the money, so only one thing is left.

Bernardo stares at his elder sister, and then, decidedly asks.

“Marie Louise, can you invite me to your chambers?”

A few minutes later it is Marie Louise, Philippe (who invited himself to her chambers all the same), and him, standing behind a wide dressing screen, with many of her dresses laid out on top of each other, trying to find the perfect fit. Perhaps the best lesson Mazarin taught them was loyalty and affection to their own kind. The Mancinis will tear apart anyone who is not in their circles, but nobody has ever loved Bernardo as much as he loves his family. He may be jealous of Philippe, and afraid of Marie-Louise’s temper, but they all support one another. Even in yelling.

And in this case, stupidity.

“You cannot wear black,” Philippe tells him since that is the first colour he grabs after. “I know what you think of it, but believe me, in this case it makes you seen more than it helps you hide.”

Marie Louise chooses a frivolous, red and white gown, with elaborate patterns at the front. Philippe again shakes his head (“that is not fit for a tavern, sister!”), but for his luck, the gown proves to be too tight for Bernardo.

“Wait here,” his sister bids them, “I will be right back.” 

Then, he leaves the two brothers to stand face to face, Bernardo bare, with a stay on and a chemise, and Philippe staring at him with pity in his black eyes. They ask him if Bernardo really needed this. But it isn’t that he wants to back off. First and utmost, he must help his uncle. And secondly, he must get ready to break d’Artagnan apart. 

Marie Louise comes back a while later, with a pale purple coloured gown, which at first glance seems to be able to fit her brother. Philippe helps her wrap the boy into it, then Marie-Louise sits him down, so she can at least attempt to tame his hair into something more resembling a neat updo. 

“Should you add a ribbon to that?” Philippe asks, dancing attendance on the two of them. Bernardo only shakes his head, stubbornly. No ribbons. No bows.

“Brother dear, please. It is time to forget about that childhood feud,” Philippe murmurs somewhere close to him, his tongue honeyed. Now, he can pretend as if he wasn't the one who denied all the ribbons from him! “A pretty, young lady will surely need some ribbons in her hair.” 

Bernardo chews on his lips at first but then he has no other choice but to comply. While Philippe braids these into his hair, Marie Louise applies some powder to his face. Unlike his brother, Bernardo avoids all sort of makeup – for the captain of the guardsmen it is nothing but an obstacle. For sure, Philippe is here to be pretty, but Bernardo is here to protect all of them. His sister finishes with dabbing some rouge on his lips, coloured by the alkanet: cool but dark. 

Philippe sprinkles him with some perfume but he ducks away from it before he would have a chance to properly bathe him in it. The last thing he wants is to knock this Athos and his friends out before he could even seduce a word out of them about the musketeer plot.

“You are not too homely,” Philippe thinks. Then, he quickly adds, for good measure. “For a downtown tavern, I mean. ... But in fact, looking at the Duchesse de Montpensier, you could even survive at court. A few extra inches in height will not really stop you.”

Bernardo wants to kick him, but his legs get tangled up in the gown. Thankfully, his sister is there to help him out and she happily punches Philippe in the arm, instead.

“Here, a cloak,” she says then, handing it over to him, as the finishing touch. “Take care, baby brother. Going to a tavern in a gown sounds a lot more dangerous than doing the same in breeches.” 

He barely makes it out to the hallways, when he is first met with trouble. In order to get to the closest exit, he needs to pass by His Majesty’s chambers. Of course, he would almost run into the queen regent! Thankfully, he sees her right in time, as she is seemingly scolding a blonde attendant for something, and he has time to re-adjust his route and find a different exit. He cannot remember the last time he felt this excited and nervous. Then, he also cannot remember the last time he went on to wear a gown in public, and risk being found out and made public ridicule over some petty dispute with a musketeer. (Even worse, the musketeer probably does not even know there was a dispute in the first place!)

It takes him a while to find the right tavern but once he is there, the sign is hard to miss. Even from the outside, it sounds bawdy and perhaps even as Bernardo, he would feel iffy to walk in there. It is different when he needs to walk in on business though. Especially if Claude and Robert are there, tailing right behind him. To mingle with the commoners for fun, though… That is an entirely different case.

He gets to mingle with them within the next five minutes, however. At first, he stands at the side, squinting at the guests: which one of these could be that famous Athos, after all? He cannot see a single musketeer uniform, which would help him in locating the right crowd. It seems the only people whose faces he knows (Jean and Paul) are also not among the customers. He keeps squinting as he wrings his hands, until a big ginger something pops out of the blue, practically rips his cloak off, and grabs him by the arm, pulling Bernardo with himself.

 “Honey, don’t just stand there like a pile of misery!” he screams into the boy’s face, but his grip is too strong, even for Bernardo to do anything about it. “Dance with me!”

The stranger doesn’t really care about Bernardo’s answer, nor about the fact that he wants a lot of things to do here but to dance. He practically behaves with him as if Bernardo was nothing more but a ragdoll, twirling him around a little too easily. Just who on earth this man is!? Just who on earth does he _think_ he is! By the looks of it, this man could be years younger than him easily, as well. What cheek! Does he have no respect for his elders?

On top of that, he also feels naked without his cape: suddenly everyone can properly see the gown he is wearing. Surely, nobody will recognize him as the captain of the guardsmen here, but what if they recognize the man in him…? Bernardo tries to peel himself away from the man, but he is too simple to understand the desperate body language.

“Get off…! Get off me, I am telling you… Don't you know who I am..”

After a long struggle, Bernardo can finally rip himself away from the man. Which is to say that the stranger releases him the exact moment he attempts to pull away, and he stumbles away, legs tangled up in his own skirt. The only thing that stops him from falling is a man who is loitering behind him. Bernardo falls straight against his chest with his back.

Two warm hands secure him by the upper arm. (Bernardo is ready to yell at the man for laying hands on him just like that.)

“Hey. Are you alright?” 

Once he is steady on his feet again – thanks to those arms – he immediately turns around, ready to loudly scold the man. One grabs him and makes him dance like a fool, the other one is touching him in such a familiar manner! Except, the exclamation that comes out of his mouth sounds a lot differently than he planned it in the beginning. His face distorts from the outrage. 

“Oh my, _d’Artagnan_!”


	2. Rude Gascon

They stare at one another for a moment, d’Artagnan surprised to hear his own name from a stranger’s mouth, and Bernardo desperately looking for a way to recover from his misstep. He clears his throat, staring at the man with wide, scared eyes.

“Are you not… that famous d’Artagnan?” he asks, and he can feel his voice naturally weaken from nervousness. He cannot forget to sound like a woman either, after all.

He tries to turn his head away from d’Artagnan as much as possible – so if he has not recognized Bernardo him yet, he would make it harder to do so. But nothing in d’Artagnan’s tone or behaviour suggests that he would be able to make the connection.

That is because h’s stupid, Bernardo thinks. Good. He is stupid or… Or he did not even look at Bernardo enough today to even have a chance at recognizing him now! Now, would it be better if he was found out to be dressing up as a woman, right here, right now? Maybe! If it meant that d'Artagnan cared about him at all. 

“… I am. But I did not know I was so easy to identify.”

Bernardo laughs, nervously, as he tries to find a good explanation for recognizing him – or rather, attempts a gullible giggle that could come from a charming young woman. It does not really work. He probably sounds like he is neighing. A desperate, crying horse.

“When I saw your … nose, and … smelled … the sun… I immediately knew this was the famous d’Artagnan they always talk about. You have a reputation for all of that,” he says, and it is not convincing at all. 

It doesn’t really impress d’Artagnan either. In fact, he wrinkles his nose a little, sniffing the air. Is he perhaps offended because he was told he stinks? Bernardo is trying to take control of the situation but all he can do is curse himself for acting on impulse. Coming to a tavern, dressed as a woman! Who the hell would even think about something absurd like that… Dresses only ever attract trouble. 

“And you?”

Bernardo only stares at him emptily. Why is it that he gets the attention he craved earlier today from d'Artagnan, when he needs it the least? He only notices himself once d’Artagnan nudges him for an answer, with a soft “young mistress.”

“Me what?”

“How can I call you?” 

Well, don’t you know! You should know already. Even though he knows he should not feel offended by this - it only means that the disguise is working well - his pride still feels wounded. 

Out of habit, he begins to introduce himself, as he normally would, but he needs to stop himself in the middle, realizing his mistake just in time. What’s next! He will claim to be the captain of the guardsmen? 

“Berna…uhh... Bernadette?”

Thankfully, d’Artagnan is too stupid to notice his hesitation. Either that, Bernardo thinks bitterly, or even tonight, he doesn’t care enough to pay any attention to him. Rude, stinky Gascon.

He is dressed even worse than before: he changed the musketeer uniform to something similar in colour, but a lot more rugged and washed out. It looks unflattering, making him even more boorish. When Bernardo looks at him, he does not want to believe that this is France’s best fencer standing before him. 

Then, perhaps if d’Artagnan looked at him now, he would not want to believe that this is Italy’s best either.

Bernardo clears his throat and he is about to leave when the other speaks again. 

“A pleasure,” he says and sounds vaguely genuine as he grabs after Bernardo’s hand, practically pulling him back towards himself. 

He jerks his hand away on an instinct and only awkwardly stops in the middle when d’Artagnan gives him a suspicious eye. Bernardo doesn’t even try to curtsy. It would be futile. 

“The pleasure is mine.” He does not sound genuine at all. In fact, he sounds a bit disdainful. D’Artagnan had his chance earlier today to express his pleasure over meeting him, and he clearly passed up the opportunity. And now, instead of rightfully sulking at home, he came over here, to celebrate his failure with his comrades. This annoys him even more. Mostly because it crosses his plans. “You don’t dance?”

"I’m not in the mood.” As d’Artagnan speaks, he can finally free his hand from his. So he is not in the mood now? Then what is he doing here? “But I am in the mood for another drink, perhaps. You drink anything, young mistress?”

… he is here to drink his sorrows away? Pathetic. Until now, he thought d’Artagnan was too simple to even to mourn his dismissal. Now he understands that he cares too much, in fact. For some reason, both were undesirable. It is as if d’Artagnan could not do anything that would make him happy. 

Does his uncle really think that he would be on par with this man? With this pathetic, sulky little baby? He never felt so angry about being compared to others before – and he does hate being compared to others. So, he answers, offended, and with his nose held up high. 

“I do not drink.” 

He is on duty, after all. Drinking and working would not go well, if he wanted to be successful in this whole spying business. (Not that he looked any successful at this point.)

D’Artagnan seems a little disappointed to hear that, and the corners of his mouth turn downwards. This way, he resembles a very big child, whose favourite toy was just taken away from him. It would be charming if he was not a grown man. 

“Sometimes some ale and some songs are good for the soul,” he tries to come to his own defence, but Bernardo will have none of that. 

Good for the soul… Some ale, some songs, and some women, huh? He must be truly disappointed in himself after that failed lesson, after all. 

“There are many things better for the soul.”

“Ha? Like what?” D’Artagnan seems genuinely puzzled, which also confuses Bernardo. 

Like… my hand clasped around your throat, you stupid bitch. A fencing match. Knocking your teeth out as we wrestle on the ground. Literally anything, Bernardo thinks. Then, he realizes that none of these answers would be befitting of a young lady. 

Thankfully, just as he opens his mouth, praying to the Lord to give him a witty answer that can ease d’Artagnan’s suspicions, the tavern gets even rowdier than before. It silences him. People are jumping on tables now, as they are singing some songs, or yelling them, rather. It catches d’Artagnan’s attention, and he forgets about his soul.

Bernardo blinks slowly a few times, trying to make sure he sees the right thing in front of him. Now, on top of those tables, it is definitely Jean and Paul he sees: the siblings who he proudly introduces as his “contacts” to his uncle. They are wearing the uniform of a musketeer, and, the creative little devils they are, in their hands, they hold a broom, vaguely dressed like a Cardinal.

“Mazarins, go to hell!” they scream, and to nobody’s surprise, the entire public house joins them in ecstasy, as one person. 

Bernardo knows three things. He did tell them to come up with a way to make the musketeers slander His Eminence in public. He did not tell them what method they should use. He definitely did not tell them that tonight is the night when they should do this. 

At this rate, they will be slandering His Eminence for no good reason, since Bernardo did not order his guardsmen to come here tonight… His face twitches. On his request or not, hearing an entire tavern spitting insults at his family does not make him feel any better. D’Artagnan, next to him, nudges him a little.

“Do you feel unwell?” 

Bernardo shakes his head, fanning his face a little to make the flush of anger disappear. At least d’Artagnan is not joining the crowd too explicitly – in that case, he would need to punch him in his crooked nose. In fact, he seems quite worried about Bernardo’s state. What! A Gascon _and_ a gentleman? 

“There isn’t enough air here suddenly, don’t you think?” he asks, trying to sound as innocent as possible. 

The owners of the public house try to keep at least the appearance of order: making the threat of the guardsmen as the pretext. 

“It won’t be fun anymore,” they warn, “when the guardsmen use these words against you! And besides, that broom belongs to the tavern. Please take good care of it.” 

You may relax, Bernardo thinks, the guardsmen will not turn up tonight, I gave them no orders to do so. Next to him, d’Artagnan is too lured into the scene to properly react anything to Bernardo’s words. 

The man who danced him earlier takes offence in this, too. He reveals himself as a musketeer, and calls the guardsmen big, black maggots. Bernardo knuckles his fists so hard, his nails claw into his skin. Of course he would be a musketeer! Rude, bawdy, and disgusting. He should have known from the beginning. 

It is unsure whether d’Artagnan notices this, or he simply reacts to his previous complaint, but he suddenly takes Bernardo by the arm. When he turns towards him, his voice sounds warm and reassuring. Bernardo would calm down if anything about this man would be calming to him. But as long as he sees these clear eyes (without as much as a single shadow of a malice!) he cannot simply just relax. 

“Let us get some fresh air, young mistress." 

Bernardo thinks about his options and decides that not hearing any more of this fruitless slandering would only benefit him. He only nods, since he is unable to press any high notes out of himself at this point. They only make it a few steps further, when Bernardo almost walks straight into his man, Robert.

“Who did you call a black maggot?” he asks the ginger. 

At the same time, Bernardo screeches (he can still manage those high notes, after all), turning straight back where he came from, which means walking right into d’Artagnan’s chest. He bends his knees a little, finding that the man’s vest is the perfect hiding spot for his face – which was very clearly the visage of a Mancini. Not just any Mancini. 

The Mancini who is Robert’s captain. 

The face he looks at every morning at the briefing. The face he reports to every time. The face he swore allegiance to. The face he knows and respects … well, he respect _ed_ until Bernardo turned up in a commoners’ public house, dressed like some princess of the downtown, clutching onto d’Artagnan’s arms. 

“A guardsman!” he says under his breath, to clarify why he planted his nose right between d’Artagnan’s breasts. Even now, his skin smells like it was baked in the sun for long summer days you spend outside. The sun went down hours ago. And it is not even summer anyway… 

Except, he is wrong again. It is not only one guardsman in the tavern. Robert did not come here tonight on his own, to have some fun – he is on duty. Soon enough, he can hear Claude’s voice behind him, and from the sounds of it, many more of his own men pour into the tavern at the same time. 

“And what are you sons of bitches doing here?” Claude asks the same time as d’Artagnan puts a protective hand on his upper arm, sensing his discomfort. 

“It’s fine, young mistress,” he whispers. “They are not looking for you, and it seems like their captain isn’t here anyway. No need to fear.” 

No need to fear!? Perhaps. Perhaps it is not frightening that he will have to look Claude and Robert in the face tomorrow, once they find out tonight that he’s been playing a lady for what it seems like the joy of it _and_ shirking his responsibilities to his uncle. At this rate, if his uncle found out about his lack of competence, it would be worse than his men seeing him in a dress. 

He turns around after a while to watch as well, although he tries to be careful and he only peeks through his fingers to hide most of his face. The guardsmen seem to be too busy confiscating the makeshift Cardinal to notice him. (So… did his contacts and his men cook this plan up together, then? How come he never heard of this!?)

Good. Just get out already, Bernardo pleads them voicelessly. The sooner they are out, the sooner the musketeers can be dismissed. After all, probably nobody will even notice that Bernardo never accompanied his men to discover the musketeers’ crime.

Except, d’Artagnan… this reckless, insufferable, rude man, cannot let it pass by without a word. There is a moment when the eyes wouldn’t be on the “peerless hero” and he makes sure to let everyone know of his presence! Why not!

“Wait a second,” he asks, clearly looking for a fight. 

Bernardo grabs his sleeve and tries to pull him back whispering “d’Artagnan, d’Artagnan,” under his breath. With his other hand, he tries to cover as much from his face as possible, in case his men would turn towards them. D’Artagnan, that cow, continues anyway.

“That broom belongs to this tavern. Could you please return it to them?”

“As if. This is proof of your crimes, now,” Claude says immediately, without a space for breath. “Don’t like it? You’re asking for more trouble.” 

“I sure am!” the ginger answers for d’Artagnan, and throws a barrel at the guardsman. "Swallow this, you bastard!" 

A man from the shadows and Bernardo move forward at the same time.

“Porthos! That's enough!”

He also wants to stop his own. Tonight is not the night for this.

“Clau…” Bernardo clears his throat with a loud cough to recover from his slip and turns on his heels, so he would show his back to the man in question. 

It is no use anymore. Fight between musketeers and guardsmen break out – the tavern’s customers side with the musketeers – and soon everything spirals into an even bigger chaos. Bernardo chews on his own whore mouth, cursing himself for crying out loud. D’Artagnan nudges him again. 

“I will take you out of here, young mistress. Come.” 

The man grabs his hand and pulls him towards the exit, trying to navigate between the two clashing sides. His hand is rough but his grip isn’t strong. With the yelling earlier, Bernardo has already drawn Claude’s attention on himself, who stands in their way once he fended the ginger off. He seems equally excited about standing up against d’Artagnan. But more so about taking a closer look at the woman accompanying him. 

“Have I met you before?” 

Bernardo turns his head towards d’Artagnan, then to the other side, trying to find the perfect answer. They met plenty of times before, of course.

“I’ve never seen you in my entire life. Now move,” he tells him, a little sharply. Claude squints at him.

“What is all this important air for?” Then, his gaze diverts towards Bernardo’s fingers, intertwined with d’Artagnan’s. “Are you perhaps the Gascon’s girlfriend, or something? Even after he so pitifully humiliated himself in front of the whole court and the king earlier today? … very loyal.” 

Bernardo’s face twists and his eyes pop out in outrage. He rips his hand out of d’Artagnan’s and stomps once. When tomorrow comes, Claude will surely repay the wrongs he did with usury… You cannot humiliate your captain, no matter what clothes he is wearing, or whose hand he is holding at the moment. 

“How dare y…” D’Artagnan gently pushes him aside before he could even finish the sentence. Thinking about it, it sounds like he was trying to defend d’Artagnan and his honour, rather than standing up for himself. So, perhaps it was only for the best.

“We just met,” d’Artagnan quickly says instead, eager to correct the misunderstanding between them. 

Thinking about it… Is Bernardo perhaps not an adequate woman!? Is he perhaps… ashamed to be holding his hand? To hell with this stinky Gascon, as well! 

He cannot lament too much on this, as Claude challenges the other to a duel and Bernardo doesn’t even know who to root for. On one hand, the little swordsmanship-expert needs a thorough beating to bring him and his self-confidence back down on earth. On the other hand, Claude should at least feel a little warm as a reward for his insolence earlier. Perhaps a little scratch would only do wonders for his attitude, as well.

 “Poke him, d’Artagnan,” he murmurs under his breath, rubbing his hands together. 

In the end, none of his men gains an injury, as a person unknown to Bernardo interrupts their duel, grabbing Claude’s attention. With this development, d’Artagnan has enough time to get away and focus on Bernardo again. 

“Come, let's get out of here,” he urges him and heads towards the unguarded exit. 

Once they are outside Bernardo suddenly feels relieved. The air is cold and crispy and fragrant of freedom. He wasn’t found out by his men, after all. It is true that he also never found this Athos fellow – but the guardsmen took the broom, and tomorrow morning, the musketeers should be reduced to nothing anyway. But d’Artagnan does not let him celebrate for too long. 

“Bernadette, let’s make sure we aren’t followed,” he proposes and takes him even farther away from the tavern. 

Bernardo follows him, and by the time they make it close to the banks of the Seine, they are both out of breath a little. When he turns back, he cannot see a soul behind them. 

“Oh my,” he gasps, fanning his face with the hand that isn’t captured by d’Artagnan. “That was close!” 

They are given only a few minutes to calm down, as there is movement on the other side. At first, it is hard to see, but then it becomes clear even for d’Artagnan: his comrades, Jean and Paul, receive some pocket money from the guardsmen, for the ugly uprising they caused in the tavern. Bernardo curses his men for choosing this exact place for the transaction because d’Artagnan cannot keep his Gascon mouth shut. 

“Those two!” he exclaims, more to himself – but it is audible on the other side as well. 

“Who walks there?” Robert asks, and Bernardo turns pale once again. Just when he thought he would be safe from being discovered. 

He draws d’Artagnan close to himself and tries to make sure that their faces are hidden. Then, he yells, in the highest voice possible. 

“No! No. I really must go now, so let me. My mother thinks I am sleeping in bed. If she finds out, we can never see each other again…” 

Robert loudly loses interest as soon as he hears this and the guardsmen retreat with the turncloaks. Both of them collapse on the wet ground, relief washing through them. D’Artagnan only has a rapier on his side, but even a swordsmanship expert would find it difficult to stand up alone against a large group of guardsmen. At least Bernardo wants to believe so, for the sake of his own sanity. 

“Smart girl,” the man compliments, and Bernardo forgets himself for a second and allows himself to bask in pride. Finally, d’Artagnan was willing to recognize him and his talents at all. He should have behaved this way from the very beginning. 

“But anyway, I hear that you paid a formal visit to court today. Swordsmanship-expert d'Artagnan.”

They are still lying on the ground, with their legs and arms apart, enjoying the freedom they momentarily gained from all their troubles. Bernardo remembers his cloak that is probably still somewhere in the tavern and hopes he would not get a cold from this escapade. 

“I did.”

“Then… you surely met the captain of these guardsmen there, too. What did you think of him?” Bernardo pries, and he cannot say that it doesn’t leave d’Artagnan at least a little surprised.

Right... why on earth would this woman ask about the captain of the guardsmen? (If she wasn't, in fact, the captain of the guardsmen, dressed up as a woman, eager to hear about himself.) 

D’Artagnan turns his head towards him as he speaks, so his double chin would be visible. Bernardo cannot decide if it looks plain stupid, or stupidly charming. He still looks like a very big child, with this pure expression on his face.

“He was a rather insufferable man.” 

“ _Ha_!?” Bernardo props himself up on his arms, then remembers himself. “I mean… I heard he is Italy’s best fencer.” 

“That could be true. I was rude to His Majesty, so he harshly criticized me.” The man thinks a little, considering what to say next. “At least his heart is in the right place when it comes to being loyal to the king. But as a result of my misstep, he was in a bad mood. And so, he acted insufferably." 

“Maybe you deserved it,” Bernardo says it in a scolding tone, pursing his lips up. “If you were rude to His Majesty, he was just doing what was expected of him. Maybe your father taught you how to wield a sword in Gascony, but he sure did not teach you any manners.” 

D’Artagnan’s eyes flash at him in response, which makes Bernardo’s stomach turn. Did he reveal himself on an accident? He knows all of this because his men did their research well… 

“How do you know that?”

“There are all sorts of rumours floating around about you in town! It is not hard to overhear them.” 

D’Artagnan looks a little sceptical but he calms down and accepts this as an answer for now. He sits up and stares at the sky for a while. There is a full moon above them, so their faces are more illuminated than they would normally be. Bernardo is thankful for being able to see. Not that crooked nose in front of him, just in general.

“So, I suppose, you already know everything you want about me.” 

“Mm. I know more than enough,” Bernardo snorts because he forgets he should act ladylike. The other giggles at that, seemingly finding it endearing. “Except for one thing. Why did you join the musketeers? Say, why not the guardsmen?” 

“I am loyal to His Majesty, firstly,” d’Artagnan explains as he stands up, and offers a hand to help Bernardo up as well. “So, I am interested in protecting our country and king the most, and not this shady Cardinal, who comes from a foreign country and could be plotting a coup, for all I know.” 

“The Cardinal and his guardsmen are doing their best to protect His Majesty, as well,” Bernardo retorts. “Their hearts are at the right place.” 

“Is that so? Then why were you so eager to hide from them tonight?”

Bernardo does not answer and hopes his partner would leave the question alone. Once he knew his true identity, he would not find his secrecy strange at all. This way, it is hard to find an explanation, however. He starts walking and d'Artagnan tries to catch up with him immediately. 

“You may know all there is about me, Bernadette, but I don’t know a single thing about you. Can I hear something? Anything?” 

Bernardo gives him the most startled look he ever produced. What! It is not like there is anything he could say about this girl whose identity he tried to take. There is nothing he can lie about himself: it is only Bernardo in a purple dress. And if he said that, it surely would not be satisfying enough for d’Artagnan. He laughs, nervously. 

“Look how late it is! I really should return home now.”

Before d’Artagnan could even say anything, he turns on his heels and chooses a direction to leave – hoping it would be the right way to the palace.

“Hey, wait a minute! Why all of a sudden? You won’t tell me a single thing about yourself?”

“It’s late! I really must go.”

“At least let me walk you home: it’s dangerous at night.”

Bernardo quickens his pace, alarmed by the man’s persistence. This is not the right time to be a gentleman, Gascon, he thinks to himself.

“No need!” 

First, he thinks that it was his gown that tripped him up again, but he later finds out that it is all thanks to d’Artagnan, grabbing his hand from behind. His back hits the rocky wall of the canal, and he makes a sound in his surprise, once d’Artagnan’s hand lands beside his face, preventing him from moving away. 

“Do you have so little trust in me that you would rather go alone?” the man asks. He surely seems disappointed in himself and his credibility. 

“Well… After all of this, can you blame me?” Bernardo retorts and tries to drag the man’s hand away from his face. "Now, release me.” 

“What if I said no?”

“You will regret it.”

The man gives him a doubtful look, his eyebrows arched in disbelief. He probably thinks that a feeble woman with a purple gown could not be a match for him. Then, you clearly haven’t met any of my sisters, Bernardo thinks, with the utmost contempt. He once saw Marie Louise break a rat’s neck that startled her siblings with her own hands, and it is no wonder she would do the same to d’Artagnan, if only given the chance. 

“You will make me regret it?” 

Bernardo’s face flushes from anger and he immediately spurs into action. He stomps on d’Artagnan’s foot to distract him with the pain, and in the meanwhile, he reaches for his rapier, prepared to attack him with it. Perhaps he is too slow, or perhaps d’Artagnan is too quick, but before he would even reach the handle of the sword, the man’s fingers curl around his wrist, stopping him. 

“You _are_ a smart girl,” d’Artagnan remarks, but he does not have a lot of time to marvel since Bernardo is not finished with him yet: he keeps struggling on to release himself. “Perhaps a little slow.”

They end up pressed against each other, breast to breast, heaving from their scuffle. Bernardo tries to catch his breath, blaming his still disadvantaged position to the fact that he is forced to wear a stay and a skirt. Surely, if they both wore breeches, Bernardo could have already suffocated him. Which is to say… He sneaks his fingers around d’Artagnan’s throat, prepared to strangle him in exchange for his release. 

Maybe the man misunderstands the gesture, maybe he is just entirely stupid. As a response, before Bernardo could even do anything, he crosses the small distance between them and kisses him on the lips, which neutralizes the attack immediately.

Bernardo’s hand melts off of his neck, awkwardly squirming in the air. Now, he is unsure what to do with any of his limbs. He was certainly made feel a little warm over a few duels before this – but not this way. This counterattack was certainly uncalled for: d’Artagnan is playing dirty. When the man is done, his legs are shaking a little and he feels dizzy. Just how delusional is this d’Artagnan, to show him, his greatest enemy, physical affection so freely? … And passionately? 

Bernardo’s fingers trace his lips, where d’Artagnan has been only a few seconds ago. His face is flushed but it is only half from anger. 

“I’m sorry…” the man breathes, in the timid voice of a child, shunned by his parents. Bernardo's rouge is all over his mouth. 

“You truly are a stupid bitch, aren’t you!” he exclaims in response, outraged. His fingers are still close to his lips, as he is in disbelief over the kiss. “No wonder His Majesty sent you away for your rudeness!” 

They stare at each other motionlessly for a long, heavy second. Bernardo even sucks his breath in. 

Instead of running away when he has the chance, he grabs d’Artagnan by the collar and pushes him back up against the canal’s wall, attacking his lips again. He will not fall behind: if anyone, then Bernardo will have the last kiss! D’Artagnan is surprised but not surprised enough to miss the opportunity of having his hands on Bernardo’s waist as he deepens their kiss.

Bernardo comes to himself in a matter of seconds, once he can hear himself whimper into the kiss despite himself, and peels himself away once again. This time, it is final. He looks d’Artagnan up and down one more time. 

“I did this because there won’t be another time.” 

That is when he takes flight, without even looking back once. He manages to find his way back to the palace immediately, even though his stomach is uncomfortably ticklish, his lips feel swollen from all the kissing, and his legs are threatening with giving out at any given moment. Since his cloak is gone, he has to be more careful once he enters the palace again – but as it is the middle of the night, most residents are already asleep. 

Bernardo rushes back to his bedchamber and tries to peel the gown off of himself on his own – it would be embarrassing to ask help from any of his siblings. First, he lets his hair down, which is when he realizes that he did not only leave his cloak behind in the tavern but dropped the ribbon from his hair as well, as he fled the scene. Then, he unwraps himself from the gown, the stay, and the chemise, tugging at his clothes desperately.

He is standing there almost naked when someone barges into his chamber without as much as knocking beforehand. 

“Captain! We were looking for you all night. The Cardinal asked us to go forward with the original plan but you were nowhere to be found… Wh…” 

He gapes at Claude, with his hands crossed on his bare chest to cover himself, and Claude gapes back at him. 

“What were you doing? Captain?” His eyes divert to the gown on the floor. Bernardo jumps before it and screeches out the first thing that comes to his mind.

“I’m having an affair! With a _woman_! I’m having an affair with a woman and I forgot the time while I was in her arms, so I did not turn up for your briefing with the Cardinal.” 

This embarrasses Claude enough not to ask any more questions and leave the room without any further delay. Bernardo takes a deep breath and puts a hand on his heart, thinking that it would finally jump out of his chest from all the fright and kill him. Never again should he dress up in a gown again, in his life! 

He tosses and turns in his sheets all night, scarcely being able to think about anything other than d’Artagnan. He tries to calm himself with saying that this was the last time he had to see him.

Since the musketeers will be disbanded the morning after because of their insolence, hopefully this rude man will go back to his Gascony, and they will never have to kiss each other again. … _See_ each other again. 

Bernardo cannot be more wrong.

Not even a full day passes after the proclamation. He is barely recovered from the events of last night – sometimes he would still touch his lips absent-mindedly when he thinks about it in passing. If he was obsessed with d’Artagnan before he even saw him, now it is twice as bad. He is about to suggest to send men after the musketeers, in an attempt to make sure none of them continues their rebellious activities. (Perhaps someone should go to Gascony and make sure that d’Artagnan is safe and sound, being an obnoxious countryman there.) He doesn't necessarily want to see d'Artagnan again but he also wants to know what he is up to... They cannot be off their guard, after all.

 Philippe calls him spacey, and Marie Louise punches him in the shoulder when he is lost in thought, which causes him to lose balance and trip. His entire day is like a fleeting world of dreams, where he takes pleasure from lamenting the events of last night as he plays them over and over again in his head.

His dozy, rather blissful state is destroyed by an announcement late in the evening, that reaches him in the saloon, where he reports back to his uncle. The chamberlain doesn’t let him even to begin, however.

“A visitor for the Cardinal Mazarin, d’Artagnan, of the former musketeers.”


	3. The Real Hero

So, it happened that this certain d’Artagnan, of the former musketeers, was accepted to join the guardsmen on the same afternoon he came on a visit to his uncle. On this certain d’Artagnan’s very own request. He appealed to the Cardinal first, and once he accepted, to His Majesty as well. 

This happens and Bernardo snaps out of it immediately. Perhaps he was a little pre-occupied with all the wrong things before, but now he sees everything for how it is. He cannot just let it pass by: he must do everything in his power to prevent this from happening. 

Begs his uncle, begs the regent, begs the king. 

It surely is a musketeer plot! A cheap farce. Why else would d’Artagnan come back to this palace so soon after his dismissal? Why else would d’Artagnan be ecstatic to serve under him? If he could send his men to go after d’Artagnan, to whatever Gascon village he is from, Bernardo would be a lot more contented. Hell, he would even go on his own to do a little research, if it meant that the story would shift back to its original path, where it was never supposed to stray from. 

Didn’t Mazarin hear the way he talked about the guardsmen… as he almost spat when he was asked to join? Can people become even more stupid than Bernardo overnight? Why cannot they see it!? Philippe often mocks him for figuring out things years after everyone. (He still keeps laughing about several things Bernardo still hasn’t figured out.) So now, it cannot be that he is the only one who figured this one out. 

“I changed my mind,” His Majesty says, with a dismissive flap of hand. “Now that the musketeers are gone, surely d’Artagnan is desperate to look for employment. As long as he does not bother me with his atrocious teaching methods, it is all the same to me.” 

Then, he returns to practice ballet, leaving Bernardo pale-faced and frightened. Frightened is a strong word. Perhaps… in a slight discomfort. Annoyance should not be confused with fear. 

“The Cardinal knows what is best for His Majesty, and for the country,” the regent tells him in a measured. Her cold, black eyes search his face with naked judgement. “Do you perhaps think your uncle is unfit to decide who is a friend and who is an enemy?”

Frankly? Yes! It is ridiculous. His uncle, the smartest, most cunning man in the world should never fall for the pitiful tricks of a stinky musketeer, who knows absolutely nothing, apart from probably two things about swords, and one other thing about kissing. If only he handled his deceit artfully but he was obvious and clumsy about it. D’Artagnan is too much of a straight man to lead anyone astray. Consciously, or not. 

He implores his uncle last.

“Bernardo, my love,” the Cardinal sighs his name, seemingly tired of getting through the same conversation over and over again for the past day. “Do you truly think I believe whatever this man tells me? … Perhaps I do. What he says is so absurd, one cannot possibly just make it up and think I would accept it as the truth. You might want to ask him about it yourself if you also wish for a headache.” 

Bernardo has other things that ache, he doesn’t really need to confuse his head on top of that. He stares at his uncle without giving him a response, awaiting further explanation. 

“I do not trust that man, to be sure. If he and his former musketeers are plotting anything, let them think we blindly let it pass by. Once they feel comfortable enough, they will reveal themselves, and make it easier for us to get rid of them completely. Now that he is finally beside you, you will keep an eye on d’Artagnan for me, won’t you, my love?” 

“Of course, uncle,” Bernardo agrees, knowing full well that he cannot say anything else if he wants to avoid becoming the family disappointment.

So, there it is… He planned to send men after d’Artagnan to Gascony, to make sure he was not up to anything naughty and instead, d’Artagnan came back straight for him. So much for not seeing each other ever again.

Later, he wraps the gown he left on his bedchamber’s floor ever since last night into something more discreet and returns it to Marie Louise. His sister scolds him immediately. 

“What! Have you been wearing this gown until now? I’ve been looking for it all day.” 

She does not ask for the ribbon, perhaps because it does not belong to her, so the responsibility isn’t hers either. Instead, he stares into Bernardo’s face for a while, squinting her eyes, as if she was searching for something. 

“By the way. You still have some rouge on your mouth. … Oh, no. Look at you, you’ve been bleeding. Stop chewing on your lips.” 

Bernardo responds by touching his own mouth again and constating where the injury came from. Well, that surely should remain his secret for now. Forever, he means. 

“I walked into a wall,” he says, as an explanation. Marie Louise gives him a funny look.

She doesn’t ask about last night: perhaps because she is not that interested, or she does not want to make Bernardo even more embarrassed. 

Her silence reminds him that his uncle also did not inquire about the tavern last night. Claude either did not report that he was missing all night to him or since the musketeers were disbanded by the morning, all the same, he decided to leave it at that. As clear-headed as he is, his uncle can press people as easily as he can spare them from discomfort if he wants. 

“Will you meet d’Artagnan before tomorrow morning?” his sister asks as he prepares to leave the chamber. Instead of answering, he returns the question. 

“Have you knocked his teeth out for disrespecting His Majesty already?” Marie Louise shakes her head.

“No. But I am only waiting for the perfect moment when he is in the same room as Lully and his walking stick. I won’t have his teeth anywhere near my fingers.”

Sometimes he wonders how it could be that Marie Louise and he ended up the most violent, and curliest headed in the family. Perhaps there is a relation. Laure is a close second, but he knows for a fact that she is doing a lot of hairdressing to achieve that look, unlike the two of them.

He bids goodnight to Marie Louise, then goes on his way. It is late enough to retire to his room, although it is not late enough to sleep yet. On his way back, he passes through the darkened library, which he uses as a shortcut to his own room. He had enough human contact for today. 

Even though the room seems completely empty, he hears a noise from nearby, but he struggles to identify the exact source. Bernardo stands in the darkness for a while, with his ears perked up, but he cannot solve the mystery. Perhaps he is imagining things. Perhaps he is tired. 

When he starts walking again, the floor creaks under his boots, which throws him off again. He enters a saloon he also perceives to be empty at first, except he notices a red figure loitering on the other side. Since he is not wearing his usual, blue, rugged, clothing, Bernardo almost does not recognize him at all. It takes a squint and his keen-scented nose. 

“Oh my, d’Artagnan, the swordsmanship-expert!” he exclaims, then turns white as the man turns towards him, a little startled. 

These were perhaps the exact words “Bernadette” used the night before as well. Bernardo turns on his heels, walks out of the saloon, with a pained expression on his face, his eyes threatening to fall out of their sockets. He takes a few moments in the darkness of the library, then with a deep breath, he enters the room again. 

“D’Artagnan,” he says, in a flat voice. “Bernardo…?”

“That is Captain for you, from now on,” Bernardo reminds him, but he cannot even sound happy about it. 

One would think he would be the most excited to have d’Artagnan under him, and officially so, but the circumstances only make him worry. A musketeer comes to them on his own volition and offers himself as a hostage. In response, his uncle starts gambling with none other but the reputation of their family. This is not the time to celebrate subjugating d’Artagnan. Perhaps Bernardo is simple and he really does not know much, other than fighting and acting obsessive. 

But he knows d’Artagnan.

He knows him because his uncle ordered him to do a deep research. And if anything, this is entirely unlike d’Artagnan. He would rather gut himself first than to join a mission and fate with the guardsmen he loathes so much. He stands for everything that is against the guardsmen.

If Bernardo’s research would have given him any doubt over that, the conversation they had on the bank of the Seine last night could prove as much. 

“I came a long way from His Majesty to you,” d’Artagnan says too, except, he has a blissful smile on his face. 

Normally, he would have to hate this situation. Now, he almost seems contented. As of yesterday, he still looked up at the king as his captain. 

“… but I still came here willingly,” d’Artagnan continues, stating the obvious, and runs a hand through his hair. It’s mouse brown in colour, rough and dry, like the tip of a used broom. If he were to brush it, it would prickle him to be sure. 

On his wrist, there is a horribly tied ribbon: messy and lopsided. Bernardo grows pale when recognizes his (Philippe’s) bow in it, and then grows scarlet from anger soon enough, understanding the implications of it. 

“And what is that ridiculous garbage on your hand for!?” he exclaims, forcing an awkward laughter on himself. Maybe he would look less nervous if he pretended to be amused by it. In reality, his stomach turns from new-found excitement. On one hand, d'Artagnan gave him attention, after all. On the other hand, he gave attention to all the wrong person. 

D’Artagnan looks at the ribbon with an even wider grin, back at Bernardo, then at the ribbon again. He looks so sweet, Bernardo thinks he would be soon gagging from all the sugar. Or, taming a self-indulgent smirk. 

“It is not mine. I am looking for its owner,” d’Artagnan announces. Proudly, and – oh no! – so in love. “So, I had to be here.” 

“ _Ha_!? My uncle did say you had an absurd reason for joining the guardsmen.” 

“It was the only way for me to frequent the palace.” Bernardo glares at d’Artagnan, demanding further explanation. “My lady lives here, you know.” 

Bernardo’s heart stops, then it tries to catch up with the beat it missed and starts beating at a rapid pace instead. He wonders if d’Artagnan can register the flash of panic in his eyes. 

“Your _what_ lives _where_ now.”

“A mysterious lady who lost this ribbon on her way last night. I followed her home to watch over her, and make sure she arrived safely.”

Bernardo tilts his head, moving closer to d’Artagnan’s face in (what he thinks is) a threatening manner and prepares to give him a wholesome tongue-lashing. 

“Told you there was no need, didn’t I!?”

“What…?”

Oh no… Bernardo clears his throat and tries once again, trusting that d’Artagnan would keep being stupid. This is something he can have the utmost faith in. 

“I bet she told you there was no need to follow her home. Otherwise, you would have _escorted_ her back without needing to tail her. Like any proper gentleman.” 

D’Artagnan doesn’t take the criticism well – or, he doesn’t take it at all, so to say. 

“You do not know about the circumstances, so it is difficult for you to judge the situation,” he dismisses Bernardo’s concern, without giving it much thought. 

Bernardo nods. Of course. There wouldn’t be anyone in this world who knew more about those circumstances d’Artagnan is citing, but there is no way of saying it. 

“Well, enjoy the last night you are not required to obey my orders, you little swordsmanship- expert,” Bernardo tells him. “I will make sure from tomorrow onwards that you will not have a single free moment to find this lady of yours.”

Soon enough, he will completely forget how that "Bernadette" of his looked (he cannot recognize him even now even though he is staring right into his face) and after that, he won’t have to be worried about being revealed anymore. After all, if d’Artagnan had enough time to ask around, he would find out rather sooner than later that this “Bernadette” in question did not even exist in the first place. Surely, people could attest that they never knew a court lady with such name. Then, no matter how stupid he is… 

“I will spend it productively, then,” d’Artagnan retorts, a little offended, and lifts his ribboned hand up. “Perhaps she is still awake. Goodnight, Bernardo.” 

The next morning, he sends d’Artagnan on the most tedious errand with Jean and Paul, to torture him a little more. He flashes a smile at the three of them, lined up next to each other. Perhaps d’Artagnan could not even recognize his old comrades when they were not dressed in the musketeer uniform. 

“Well, well, it seems like you three will enjoy each other’s company over here, too. All of you share an inclination towards the guardsmen, after all. Some of you followed the scent of money, some of you followed their heart.” 

Jean and Paul blush to the tip of their ears, and d’Artagnan turns pink as well, although it is from pure frustration. Before he could even open his mouth to say something in his defence, Bernardo cuts him off. 

“Or perhaps you would not have come here to pursue the love of your life if the musketeers were not to be disbanded?”

D’Artagnan presses his lips together like a stubborn child. He finds it sad, how he detests Bernardo without being able to hold back at all, but gushes about this “Bernadette” of his all the same. Tragic, really. The only thing separating the two is a purple gown. Oh yes... and some makeup.

“You forget that His Majesty made it a choice between me leaving the musketeers and disbanding us on a whole,” d’Artagnan says, looking him straight in the eye. “Even if Jean and Paul did not help your men the other night, I would have no place to return to at the musketeers. Do not worry, I would pursue my lady all the same.”

Bernardo can only keep eye contact for so long, and casts his eyes down, masking his discomfort with awkward snickering. So, he probably forgot about His Majesty’s exact words… It is because he had other things to worry about at night. Namely, d'Artagnan. And skirts. He clears his throat and yells at them, bidding them to pick a few things up Mazarin commissioned. 

“With the queen of Spain approaching Paris, we will need to start preparing for the reception of her and her entourage. You three will be in charge of delivering the supplies from Paris for the guests. As for today, you will be carrying hundreds of masquerade masks all day." A self-indulgent grin.  "Enjoy!” 

He tells them to leave – and d’Artagnan, assuming leadership over the other two, leaves the room as soon as possible. Bernardo can still catch him rolling his eyes at their task but this is exactly what he wanted to achieve. The more useless he can make d’Artagnan, the more he can get back at both him and uncle, for ever implying that this rude Gascon could be anything close to his equal. Any of the unreliable palace guards or servants could deliver those masks, but Bernardo will make sure that the privilege is all the former musketeers’. They will regret that their little company was ever founded, to begin with. And they will regret joining even more so.

As soon as they left, he calls Claude and Robert to himself.

“Listen to me,” he says. “This d’Artagnan leaves me at unease, no matter what my uncle thinks. I want you to chase after the other musketeers, and see what they are up to. While d’Artagnan and the others are wasting their times with those masks, I want you to do thorough research. I want to hear the reports as soon as possible.” 

He yells after them before they would leave the room.

“Especially that Athos! Something stinks about that man.”

For the remainder of the day, he joins his uncle and Philippe watching over the Mazarinettes, who were practising their hearts out for the ballet performance. During those idle moments, Mazarin has enough time to scold him thoroughly for sending d’Artagnan to do the job of a servant. 

“If you want him to be left unsupervised and free to plot against us with the musketeers, then you did well,” he says in a stifled voice, so His Majesty cannot accidentally overhear them. “I thought you promised to keep an eye on him.” 

Bernardo tries to cover up his misstep but his uncle will have none of it. Beside them, Philippe is snickering with his mouth covered, enjoying his little brother’s struggle. Surely, if Bernardo asked anyone about his plan before, they could have surely told him that it was bleeding from many wounds. Afraid of exactly that, he remained silent. His uncle turns to him, using a warmer tone. 

“More importantly, I have finally settled the matter of the new fencing instructor with His Majesty. From tomorrow onwards, you, as the captain of the guards will take over and tutor him. He finally agreed." 

Bernardo makes a face. He has been the best of Italy all this time, so waiting for so long to be appointed was not warranted at all. 

“I was ready to start any time.” 

He does not see d’Artagnan for the rest of the day – delivering masks was clearly the best task to give him, if he wanted him to be far away from the palace for long periods of time. By the time he would arrive, his "lady" could be long asleep in her bed. The next morning, he has a better idea, scared of another backlash from his uncle. The same as yesterday, he sends Jean and Paul to keep on doing their job from the day before and deliver the items from the checklist they were given.

But the Gascon cannot go. 

“D’Artagnan,” he calls the man back when he would follow them, assuming that the orders have not changed overnight. “I do not believe I said your name there. Stay.”

Pulling a face, D’Artagnan trots back and waits for further instruction. 

“My uncle seems to have a liking for you and the way you stink, so I figured he would want to keep you close to himself. For the morning, you will join him and follow him wherever he wants you. After that, you will join me while I teach swordsmanship to His Majesty.”

Bernardo thought about this carefully all through last night. If he makes d’Artagnan come with him, the possibility of the king to get offended again would only grow. Then, he could once again assert his superiority. Maybe he can even have him dismissed again. 

Once the others left, he also goes on his way, preparing for His Majesty’s first fencing lesson. On the hallway, his men find him and draw him to the side. He listens to the brief reports of Claude and Robert: Athos disappeared from Paris without a trace, and nobody could find out where he went. It is as if he never existed in the first place. Porthos joined some swordplay troupe, where he gets paid for drunkenly yelling, and throwing props at other actors. As for Aramis…

“It seems like he opened his own place of worship,” Claude explains. “He is very popular among women, you know. In fact, he only accepts them to his confessional, which seems to be working as a counselling service for those with a troubled love life.”

“Advice on love life? From a priest above all?” Bernardo rolls his eyes. “Who even needs that sort of thing?” 

“Judging by the popularity of his services, it seems like many ordinary people struggle with problems of the heart, Captain,” Robert adds and no matter how hard he tries to neutralize his tone, Bernardo can still catch the patronizing edge in it. 

He grins. Maybe he should send d’Artagnan to his dear friend: he seems to be having all sorts of confusion in his stupid little Gascon heart. He is pining for the captain of the guards, dressed in a gown. If one is a musketeer, it could hardly get more scandalous from there. (He thinks of this with malice now, but in truth, he spent his second night wide awake, fingers on his lips. If he focuses on it too much, he can still recall how exactly it felt when his back was slammed against the canal wall.) 

“Who is experiencing trouble in love?” a sharp voice inquires, as the duchess of Montpensier walks in on them. By the looks of it, she has been eavesdropping for a while now but she couldn’t hold herself back anymore. Bernardo stares at her, ready to rebuke her for her insolence, but the words freeze to his throat when he sees the dress she is wearing.

It is light purple, slightly dirty at the bottom if you knew where to look, and just big enough at the shoulders for Marie Louise to be able to squeeze Bernardo into it if she tried very hard. Bernardo swallows thickly and looks at Claude, trying to figure out whether he made the connection. And if he did so... then which one? 

At best, he would remember the girl who was wearing this gown in the tavern, when they met. 

At worst, he would remember this gown lying around on the floor of Bernardo’s chambers, when he claimed to have a lover. Who was also a woman. 

Who turns out to be... Montpensier, now. Even to Bernardo's greatest surprise. 

“Don’t we all, in the end,” he quickly coughs the answer out, then turns on his heels to escape from the situation. “And now, if you excuse me. His Majesty is waiting.” 

D’Artagnan also waits for him at the antechamber of the practice room shifting his weight from one leg to another. When he is wearing the black uniform of the guardsmen, he does not look half as laughable. If someone had a taste for crooked noses, the sun, and the earth, then he would be close to handsome, even. Thankfully, Bernardo had no deviancies of the sort. He would surely need to keep his eyes closed if d’Artagnan was about to kiss him again… 

When the king sees that d’Artagnan comes to watch over them as well, he makes a dissatisfied face. 

“I thought I told you he is fine to be here, as long as he does not bother me with his methods.”

“This is an exercise for Your Majesty in fencing, and for him, in behaving properly,” Bernardo explains and he cannot hide the self-indulgent smile from his face when he shoots a quick look at d'Artagnan. 

Thankfully, the king does not care enough to make d’Artagnan leave. He only shrugs and takes his overcoat off, so it would not disturb him. Bernardo gestures towards the chaise longue in the corner of the practice room, for d’Artagnan to sit on. 

From observing the previous attempts at teaching His Majesty, Bernardo knows one thing: he hates the basics to be explained to him. Despite that, he would desperately need someone who would teach him exactly that. Now, there is no way to tell him that and remain in his favours, so for the time being, Bernardo decides to allow him to display the first position in all its erroneous glory. If he stops him so early, His Majesty will never get through a proper lesson without dismissing his tutor. When he glances to the side, he can already see d’Artagnan judging him. 

Later, when he feels like His Majesty would be more comfortable with some actual learning, he addresses the king with caution. Perhaps the right position is not the most important part of learning, for now. Perhaps they should start with something more fun. 

“There is only one part of me you have to watch in a match, Your Majesty. Which is…”

“The hands?” the king asks, attempting a futile poke.

“No.” 

“The legs?” When His Majesty misses again – both Bernardo and the answer, he stomps with his feet and speaks to d’Artagnan. Making mistakes instantly puts him in a bad mood and it is difficult to recover from there. “What does the swordsmanship-expert think?”

“It is the eyes, of course,” the man says, standing up. 

Bernardo nods, quite bitterly, at the answer. Why did he have to say “of course?” This self- assured, know-it-all air he assumes hurts his nose the most. And it must surely annoy His Majesty as well. He continues to explain, trying his best to ignore d’Artagnan, who draws closer to them, lured in. 

“The only thing you have to look at is your opponent’s eyes and you will be able to read their next step, or see a space to launch an attack.” 

It does not have the effect on the king he expects to have: surprise, or a little awe, perhaps increased interest. His Majesty conceals a yawn and keeps attacking over and over again with less and less precision. He is only interested in either being praised or being finished. Bernardo stops the king, a little fed up with his attitude.

Teaching someone who does not want to learn is the most torturous task of all.  

“D’Artagnan,” he calls out, as they are both frozen into motion. “Come, correct His Majesty’s stance.” 

“May I?” d’Artagnan asks his king, cautiously. 

He only approaches when he gains permission from him. Good, Bernardo thinks. At least he can learn from his mistakes and practice some humility. 

On that note, he really should start counting how many times he is wrong about things concerning d'Artagnan. 

First, he approaches Bernardo and places two fingers on his chin, gently turning his head away, so he would be looking at His Majesty, and not him. His eyes pop out.

“What!” 

“Did you not say yourself eye contact was crucial? I corrected your stance. It is rude to pay attention to someone other than your fencing partner during a match.”

Bernardo flushes entirely red and entertains the idea of stabbing d’Artagnan to death. right here and now. The swords for practice are safe and made to prevent most of the injuries, but he would manage with enough determination. He fights the urge, even though the man goes as far as to step behind him and turn him a little by the waist too, adjusting his stance just for humiliation’s sake.

Now that Bernardo is watching His Majesty, he can constate that the king is suddenly having way too much fun.

His joy only lasts as long as d’Artagnan is occupied with Bernardo: once he switches sides and starts correcting the king, he has a lot more work to do. Sadly, he cannot really observe what he is doing, as he is still too busy being offended. How dare this cheeky Gascon come over and correct his stance! He just never understands where to stop. 

“Why won’t you and Bernardo continue fencing,” His Majesty complains when he’s been corrected for long minutes without end, “if you both seem to love it so much. You have so much in common. While you do that, I will go and prepare the Sun King ballet.” 

Their tutorial should not be over yet, but Bernardo lets him go without any protest. One, he is too destroyed to speak. Two, he knows that protesting would only worsen His Majesty's mood. When he is out of hearing distance, Bernardo tosses his own rapier on the ground as well, unable to hide his discomfort with only d’Artagnan remaining in the room. 

“You truly are incredibly rude, aren’t you.” 

“You asked for my corrections,” d’Artagnan retorts, playing the innocent. “I only thought you should practice what you preach, and look at His Majesty when you have a match, instead of staring at me.”

When he finishes, he cannot help himself but show a cheeky smile to his captain. 

“Say whatever you like, I was not staring at you,” Bernardo hisses, practically fuming from anger. He desperately tries to change the subject to draw the attention away from the error on his side. “More importantly. I wonder… What have you been up to all day yesterday? Have you punished your men when you were left alone? For their betrayal?” 

“They are your men now. Have _you_ punished them?” D’Artagnan waits for a while, perhaps doing a little thinking. If he can be ever caught doing such. “Aren’t you afraid that they would sell you out for money all the same?” 

“For money? I doubt anyone could pay them better than my uncle did.” D’Artagnan glares at him in response. 

“What if they approached me about your offer, and I told them to accept the money, so we can infiltrate the guardsmen and use up your resources?” he pries. 

He is unsure about d’Artagnan’s plans, of course. He cannot trust him because his entire story stinks. Love or no. But he also saw his reaction to the betrayal the other night and he had no reason to fake anger and disappointment in front of “Bernadette.” So clearly, he was not informed of this.

“Why would you tell me that if it were true,” he sighs, tired of this fruitless conversation. “In any case. D’Artagnan. If you are so keen to conspire, continue talking to my uncle and leave me be. I don’t understand him. I thought he wanted to get rid of the bad apples and look at him now, favouring their ring-leader.” 

He turns on his heel, ready to leave the man alone.

D’Artagnan stops him, the same way as he stopped him that night. Grabbing his hand from behind, he prevents him from leaving or taking another step forward. Bernardo prepares to feel the wall slamming against his back once again but the sensation does not come. He turns back towards the man without thinking, to stand face to face. 

“Do you think we are the villains here?” d’Artagnan asks him, his voice filled with both pain and disbelief. 

“… sure as hell _I_ am not the villain,” Bernardo filters the words through gritted teeth, trying to yank his wrist out of d’Artagnan’s grip as discreetly as possible. “Unhand me.” 

“Your uncle is the one who raises the taxes to impossible heights and pockets all the money. You are the ones who abuse their power to oppress. Not us.” 

Bernardo opens his mouth then closes it, unable to even comprehend all the ridiculousness he heard. D’Artagnan’s fingers warming his wrist do not help at all either. The bad guys! Them! 

If he had any means to do so, he would be ecstatic to strangle all the insolence out of this man. Choke some sense into him. 

“It is all for the sake of His Majesty and this country. My uncle is a generous man. You should all be grateful,” he snarls, finally liberating himself from the man’s grasp. “How dare you raise a hand on your own captain. Your whore mouth is better off kissing, instead of spitting all this nonsense.”

He leaves d’Artagnan behind, too frustrated to even send him back beside his uncle. Even though lunch is about to be served, he decides to skip it this time – he does not feel like forcing anything down his throat anymore. Instead, he goes to Marie Louise’s room and waits for her return. 

By the time she arrives, his face is still flushed from the embarrassment and the anger. He is absent-mindedly clasping at his wrist that d’Artagnan was squeezing before. 

“Marie Louise,” he calls, even before the poor girl could properly enter her room, or administer his presence first. Bernardo launches into his request immediately. “Do you know of this certain Father Aramis, who solves all sorts of girly troubles? (Like love?)”

His sister’s eyes get glossy as soon as he hears the name. As if this “Aramis” was some sort of a spell. 

“Of course,” she says. “I had Marie Anne to reserve a slot for me. He’s gorgeous, Bernardo, despite the fact that he is a former musketeer!” 

Bernardo sighs. Some former musketeers are just gorgeous, and we all have to make an effort to ignore that with all our might, he thinks. 

"He gives good advice?" he asks, turning his head as much as possible, so he would not have to look at his sister. 

"He does. But he does not accept men as visitors, you know," Marie Louise warns, figuring that her little brother would need the advice himself. 

Right. He has heard about this before earlier today. 

“In that case. Do you happen to have a gown this time that does not belong to the duchess of Montpensier? … And I will not put a ribbon in my hair. Never again.”


	4. Ribbon Trouble

Sneaking out of the palace in the middle of the night while wearing a woman’s attire felt a lot less risky than leaving in broad daylight, as he does now. He felt protected while being enveloped in the darkness of the night. Even if he was seen, he couldn't be properly observed.

Now, he is exposed. Even if Marie Louise made an effort to find the most unassuming gown for him, dark in colour, without much ornamentation, it does not help. Everything even slightly unfeminine on him sticks out, demanding attention. The colour of the gown itself is reddish-brown this time, like copper, covered by yet another cloak he vows not to lose this time. 

Marie Louise spends extra time making his hair and makeup, knowing that these are the factors that can hide his identity the most. Before, he had the darkness and the shadows to conceal his appearance. She dabs some red on his cheeks too, this time. 

“You have to look innocent and gullible,” she explains. “Which you are, but assuming the form of a woman does not help your overall appearance.” 

Which means that he is an ugly girl.

“I am not innocent and gullible,” Bernardo protests. “I could kill a man.”

“Hush now.”

She finishes up, and once again, Bernardo refuses to put a ribbon in his hair this time. It has caused him enough trouble already: he is better off without it. Marie Louise seeks both Philippe and Marie Anne, so they could form a protective wall around him when sending him off, to make sure that nobody in the palace would take notice of him. 

“On your way back, you will be alone,” Philippe warns him. “Whoever sees you, sees you.” 

He was left on his own once before, and he managed quite well, he thinks. It’s not like a musketeer picked him up and tailed him until he entered the palace without him noticing… 

On his own defence, he was obliterated by the kiss. 

He wishes there was an equally good reason for not having recovered from it ever since. But that is about to change. If he can help it, this Father Aramis will tell him exactly how to deal with unpleasant man problems. Apparently, he is an expert in that. 

Bernardo does not remember seeing so many women in his entire life before, as many lines up outside Aramis’s abode. Even from the neighbouring street, he could hear a strange noise, which was coming from the countless women, young and old, chattering and flailing around, as they were waiting to be admitted inside. 

Bernardo adjusts his cloak a little and tries not to make eye-contact with anyone. He could swear he hears Laure’s voice from a few women ahead. The queue disappears quicker than he expects: Aramis seems to be throwing out women as soon as they come in. A little over an hour and he only has three people before him waiting in the line. 

They are gone before he knows it, and a tired, disinterested voice calls out to him.

“Next!”

He slumps down on the wooden bench inside the confessional, not even attempting to act ladylike. It is not that Father Aramis can see him through the sliding screen. 

There is a little awkward silence before Bernardo would remember that it is his time to speak, and crosses himself hastily. He forces a high registered tone on himself, having heard that Aramis once sent a woman away, whose low voice startled him, thinking it was a man. 

This Father Aramis sure was a coward, above all. Despite being a musketeer!

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. My last confession was…” 

“We don’t say that here,” Aramis’s voice interrupts him, urging him to state the purpose of his visit. “Tell me what pains your heart, and be quick.” 

Bernardo thinks about flipping the entire confessional box on him, but he keeps his calm for now. It would be unladylike. And, his sisters would probably kill him, if he dared to hurt their new favourite priest for such a petty reason. With a sigh, he gains some time to think about what to say. 

“I am here because of a man.”

An exasperated groan, followed by some almost unintelligible mumbling.

“Aren’t we all.”

This throws him off a little but then he thinks about d’Artagnan for a second and that is all it takes to get back to his previous, angered state. 

“He is the most insufferable man I’ve ever known in my life! And I’ve known plenty men, trust me.” 

“Knowing plenty men is no sin you should feel any shame for, Madame,” Aramis offers, to calm him. 

He realizes that his shoulders have been tense for all this time, so he drops them with a confused sound. Talking about his problem with other people is a lot more difficult than he could have imagined. Perhaps this is why he never tried to do it in the first place. Or, again, because he never had any matters of the heart before. 

“I am not here to confess how many men I know. My profession requires working with men only. It would take days or weeks to list them all.” 

More silence from the other side. Then, Father Aramis braves it, a little less assertively than previously. 

“I see my lady is confident in her own occupation in life… That is good. But, hurry up, and let me hear about the matter.” 

He starts from the very beginning of it. The man in question is a countryman, and he hates countrymen so much. They are brusque, loud, and they stink. They have no way of words: uttering a simple “thank you” proves to be a challenge. And let us not even talk about self- introduction. They believe their insight is necessary, and they are the first to share it, oblivious to others’ discomfort. Even worse, they believe that their simple countryside methods are superior to the refined, elegant ways of the Capital. And thus, they dare to laugh at others, pretending that the countryside produces the true ways! 

He gets a little off track with that but recovers soon enough, when Aramis reminds him that he came here to talk about one particular man and not the entire population of France, save those few aristocrats who live in the Capital.

“Right. This one is even worse than all the other countrymen. He is trying to tell me how to do my job! I’ve never had anyone to preach to me about keeping eye-contact while we are at it, or to come over and correct my position like I am some sort of a beginner! I could do any position flawlessly, even if I was woken up from a dream.” He yells the next part, visibly getting more and more upset with every word. “Nobody knows the sword better than I do!” 

“… the what?” 

“The swo…” Bernardo’s eyes pop out, realizing that he is about to reveal himself. He clears his throat, pretending that he forgot to finish the sentence, and continues his complaints. “This man is the most insufferable creature I’ve ever met, and he _dared_ to kiss me, even! On the _lips_. No men ever attempted to do that. Oh yes… and he pushed me up against a wall, too. That was outrageous. And on top of that… he is obsessed with a woman at the same time. A woman, who doesn’t even exist! What a stupid bitch…”

 “I…” Aramis tries again. “I… so… what is exactly the problem the Madame needs to fix here? Please tell me a bit more straightforwardly, this time.”

Bernardo slaps his thigh in frustration and it makes a sharp sound, even under the countless layers of underwear. Isn’t it obvious!? These people say Father Aramis is the best to come to when one has all sorts of troubles and yet all he sees is that he is a great fool who understands nothing and rushes his clients. How could he even attempt to give him good advice, if he does not know the backstory well enough? A con man. A pretty con man is all Father Aramis is. 

“Well! I do not know if I should strangle him first, or eliminate this woman he has cooked up for himself, so he does not die with his delusions about her once I'm choking him to death!” 

He heaves from anger by the end of it, as Marie Louise’s chest often heaves when she is upset and tries not to yell, his fists knuckled, blood running out of his fingers. That rude Gascon!

From the other side of the confessional box, he can hear a faint giggle. 

“I think the Madame already knows what she wants to do.”

“My question was what I _should_ be doing,” Bernardo corrects him, a little offended. "Are you not here to give advice!?" 

“In that case, here is my advice. When the next opportunity comes, you should leap into his arms, and suffocate him with love.” 

That is not really the answer Bernardo was looking for, so he finds himself dumbstruck, only half-processing the words of advice. He stares into space for a while, until Father Aramis urges him to leave. 

“Is there anything else? Perhaps you are looking for someone to practice with around here?” Bernardo snorts.

“As if!”

If he wanted to practice with anyone, it surely wouldn’t be a musketeer anyway.

“Thank God. Then _next_!”

He stumbles out of the box, gathering the dress up in his hands, so he would not trip. It is still not dark enough in the afternoon when he leaves the place of worship, so putting on the hood would only seem suspicious now. 

On the way back to the palace, any time he sees too much blue at the same place or a ridiculous hat, his stomach immediately turns upside down, and he starts looking for an escape route. He arrives without any d’Artagnan-encounters, only to hear the name he hates the most when he steps into the hallways of the palace with a sigh of relief, already loosening the mantle on top of his dress. 

“Bernadette!”

He comes from the other end of the hallway.

“Oh my, d’Artagnan. _No_!”

He turns to the other direction where d’Artagnan is coming from and makes a run for it – as much as his skirt lets him do so. The flight takes him as far as the courtyard of the palace, where d’Artagnan regrettably catches up with him and almost rips the top part of the skirt off of him in an attempt to make him stop. 

“ _D’Artagnaaan_!” Bernardo screeches as he turns, and tries to pry the material out of his hands. “You are ruining the dress.” 

And it is not his, to begin with: he has to return this dress looking immaculate to whoever it actually belongs to. He is panting a little, feeling a little constrained in the stay under his gown, while d’Artagnan was visibly not affected by a little running at all. Bernardo licks his lips and looks away from his chest. 

“Black is a lot better than that blue nightmare you were wearing the other time,” he says, as a matter of fact. It is true. But if Bernardo said it, it would have to be an insult. 

That gains him a blissful smile from d’Artagnan. Oh no. He thinks it was a compliment now! Well… it was a compliment but now he will be only more obsessed with this “Bernadette” of his. Who doesn’t exist, in the first place. 

Maybe Bernardo should have her sudden, tragic death rumoured by his sisters and the other court ladies. Then d’Artagnan would surely move onto someone else… slightly more real. And who is wearing slightly more trousers. 

Wait… no.

Just move on, simply. 

While he is pre-occupied with his ongoing struggle, d’Artagnan loosens the ribbon on his wrist and holds it out in front of himself for Bernardo to take it. There is something endearing about it. He clears his throat before he would speak.

“I believe this belongs to you, young mistress.” 

It belongs to Philippe, but Bernardo isn’t about to correct him. He takes it back, fiddling with it as he holds it between his fingers. Then, deciding that their encounter should be over, he turns around and starts walking away from d’Artagnan, towards safety. He is not planning to say another word to him. The man had his little escapade now, it is time to move on. 

D’Artagnan chases after him, completely oblivious to the fact that he is not wanted.

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot, you know,” he confesses, fruitlessly. Because Bernardo already knows about that, it’s no news.

When he turns around, the look in d’Artagnan’s eyes tells him that he has never seen anything in the world that would be better than the woman who stands before him… Bernardo absolutely hates that.

“I know,” he says.

He listened to d’Artagnan’s gushing. And if you boast about your little love to your archenemy (well, Bernardo only wishes d’Artagnan looked at him as such), then surely, you’ve truly been enchanted. If anyone knows in this world how much d’Artagnan loved his “Bernadette” it surely should be Bernardo himself. 

“Did you think about me?” 

“We are not a match,” Bernardo says quickly, instead of an answer. “You… like swords, and I am… a girl… We are not compatible. You should find someone who shares your interests. Perhaps… another swordsmanship expert?”

“That’s silly. It isn’t a reason not to try.” 

He feels trapped. Whatever is this “Bernadette” is going to say, it doesn’t matter: d’Artagnan is stubborn enough to have his way. And it seems like his heart has regrettably settled for “Bernadette.” 

“I am not who you think I am.” This time, he clearly sounds desperate.

“Are you perhaps married?”

“No. Worse.” 

D’Artagnan seemingly struggles to come up with anything that could be worse than married. Bernardo wants to scream something very filthy at him, but he holds himself back for the time being. (Perhaps it is not something that should echo in a courtyard, after all.) 

“… are you perhaps already engaged, then?” he tries again at loss for any other ideas. “… divorced? … the king’s concubine?” 

“You returned the ribbon to me now, so please forget about the rest,” Bernardo asks, unable to listen to the guessing any longer. These are all so painfully off. 

D'Artagnan thinks that the worst thing that can happen is "Bernadette" already belonging to someone else? Well, he is in for a surprise.  

He attempts to leave one more time, but d’Artagnan is persistent, grabbing him by the wrist again. Bernardo screeches, realizing too late that he made too much noise. 

“There is no wall here!” he quickly warns the man, but already anticipates what is to follow. 

“… what wall?” D’Artagnan moves on from his confusion quickly enough, curling an arm around Bernardo’s waist as he pulls him closer. He lowers his voice. “If you outright tell me you hated it so much, I will let you go.”

Bernardo blinks at the man, trying to keep him away by placing his palm on his chest, pressing a little. 

“Hated what…?” He plays the fool, trying to gain some more time.

“Tell me you do not want to kiss me, and I will leave you alone, for once and all.” 

It sounds like a request very easy to fulfil, and yet, Bernardo is lost for words. He fails to answer the way d’Artagnan prompted him, so the next thing he knows is that the man’s face slightly looms closer to his, their lips threatening to meet any time.

 Well, Bernardo will not fall behind! If they are going to kiss anyway, they are going to kiss on his terms. 

Before d’Artagnan could attempt to do it, he crosses the space between them, stealing a kiss. Even if he is “Bernadette” now. And… even if there is no wall to be slammed onto. 

D’Artagnan is pleasantly surprised, and after the initial shock, he leads Bernardo towards the stone bench a few steps away from them, without ever breaking the contact. He miraculously follows him. (He thinks, at least. There isn’t much miracle in it.) 

He very quickly forgets about trying to make d’Artagnan give up on his “Bernadette.” 

However, they are very quickly interrupted by a bunch of people coming out to Bernardo’s screaming. 

“What’s going on?”

That is Philippe’s deep, rich voice, who is approaching them, followed by some of the Mazarinettes and – to properly fulfil his greatest nightmares –, his uncle trailing behind. Bernardo jumps up immediately and pushes d’Artagnan away, using the momentary confusion around him to disappear and run back to the palace.

With his skirt gathered at the front to provide easier movement, he sprints back to his personal chambers, shoving some servants away on his way. 

He only feels at ease once he can lock the door behind himself and start undressing. Learning from his previous mistake, he goes to his inner chambers to undress. First, he throws the stupid ribbon on the bed, then he starts ripping the gown off – leaving it intact is not that important anymore, after all. He needs to get all of the evidence off of himself. 

Thankfully he still has some water in the washbasin from the morning, so he can attempt to rub all the icky makeup off of his face. When he looks into the mirror, the rouge painted his visage red all over, making everything worse than where he began. Bernardo tries again and forces himself not to think about all the red he left on d’Artagnan’s lips. 

By the time he looks clean enough, it is already dark outside, and around time for dinner. He sits around for a while, wondering if he really wants to take all the knowing looks from Philippe, who certainly saw everything. In the end, he thinks that he is hungry enough to drop down to his uncle’s dining room, take anything he can from the servants, and disappear under a minute without meeting anyone’s eyes. 

Sadly, it doesn’t work.

Philippe lets him go without saying a single word.

Before he could even attempt to take some food, his uncle beckons him to the dining table. 

“Bernardo, my love. We haven’t seen you the whole day after your lesson with His Majesty. Why won’t you come, sit by my side.” 

He follows the order sheepishly, ducking his head between his shoulders in an attempt to disappear completely before he makes it. 

“Good evening, uncle,” he says, and his voice is so thin, it could even belong to this “Bernadette.” 

He catches Marie Louise and Philippe exchange a look and decides that his plate is the most interesting thing he can stare at for the entire dinner. The attendants serve the first course and he barely touches it. He definitely hates to be judged for something that just gave him so much forbidden pleasure.

Forbidden, because he really should hate d'Artagnan with burning passion. And instead, he spends his time kissing his lips. 

“Interesting,” Mazarin tells him, once he finishes eating and motions to the servants to bring out the next serving. 

“… what is?” 

“It seems like d’Artagnan truly did not lie to us about his ambitions to join the guardsmen. Would you have thought so, my love?” 

Bernardo takes a napkin to hide his face and speaks into the cloth, which muffles his words.

"He is a straight man, one could have expected him to tell the truth.”

Even though… he was the first one to claim d’Artagnan was a filthy liar, when he arrived at the palace with his request. Surely, his uncle also hasn’t forgotten about that. 

“Straight, to be sure, but not the brightest of his cohort.” His uncle gives him a sharp look, but Bernardo could not hold his gaze. “He found a whimsical woman in this Bernadette of his.” 

“Bernadette... So, he told you the name.”

“I told you, he wasn’t exceptionally smart. … Just like you.” He cannot really defend himself. “Philippe? If you were to go to town and pretend to be a lady for a night in a tavern. What alias would you use?” 

“… Anne? Marie? Marie-Anne? Arlette? There are plenty of common names to choose from,” Philippe answers and his voice carries a smug superiority. 

Mazarin nods, then speaks again. 

“Hm. Let me rephrase my question. Philippe, if you were to go to town and pretend to be a lady for a night in a tavern… What alias would you certainly not use?” 

“Philippa, of course.”

“Of course,” Mazarin says, so sharply that the servant putting the second course on his plate shakes a little from the surprise. “If you used Philippa and your man was only a little smarter than d’Artagnan, you would be in a huge trouble, soon enough.”

Bernardo does not know what to say, so he scarcely breathes and prays that the dinner would end soon enough. Or at least before he chokes himself to death accidentally.

 “And d’Artagnan was even looking for you in the afternoon, Bernardo. He had something he wanted to report, I believe.”

After a few moments of awkward silence, Bernardo lets his brothers and sisters carry the conversation and distract everyone from his failure. Now, he cannot even explain that he wanted to go after Athos in the first place because being caught kissing d’Artagnan a few hours ago does not give him much leverage. 

The only thing he can do is to suck it up and never look into his uncle’s eyes ever again. Or, well, at least for the next two weeks, until _Bernardo_ forgets about the affair. His uncle is too smart to forget, and surely, he will store this for the future, when it might come handy again.

After dinner, he does not immediately make his way back to his chambers. He aimlessly walks around in the palace for a while, trying to figure out how to clean up all the mess d’Artagnan made. For one, he still was not the brightest child in the family, so his options were to kill or to be killed. 

If he could somehow eliminate this “Bernadette,” or if he could strangle d’Artagnan… He does not believe in the effectiveness of leaping into his arms, no matter what Aramis was trying to tell him. If he leapt into his arms as himself, he would probably truly be killed. If he did it as “Bernadette,” d’Artagnan’s obsession would only grow and soon enough clothes would be stripped, and the secret would come out. A gown and some powder can only conceal Bernardo’s identity for so long. 

He suspected a musketeer farce as an attempt to infiltrate the guardsmen and here he is, donning a woman’s gown to steal kisses from a stinky Gascon. It is a shame that once you taste it, you cannot let him go. Now, he will have to kill d’Artagnan to get out of this awful love triangle. A love triangle, where two people are played by Bernardo. Can he truly be envious of himself? 

Obsessiveness and jealousy … is honestly something he needs to grow out of. He burnt himself once, so he understands now. 

He sits down under a bookshelf, to be well-concealed in the darkened library and presses his forehead against his knees. It would truly be the best if he could go home to Italy. Everything would be easier there: nobody would dare to correct his fighting stance. No former musketeers to look out for. No kisses. No d’Artagnan. 

Even if he has a feeling that by now, the lack of d’Artagnan would feel like a punishment.

Once you obsessively pretend to hate someone for long enough, you start to get attached to them. And all those things you complain about. The stench of the sun and the earth... The stupid hats. The hooked nose. The washed out, blue clothes... The garters. (Alright, he never complained about the garters.) 

To say that he would miss him is a bit of a strong expression, but… 

“I’ve been looking for you all day. Have you been hiding here all along?” D’Artagnan steps next to him, looking down at him. When Bernardo looks up, squinting at him a little offended, he adds. “Captain?”

“I went to church,” Bernardo announces as he stands up, so he would not be in a disadvantaged position when he is talking to d’Artagnan. 

“And what sort of atrocity could you commit that you needed to confess it so urgently?”

“Adultery.”

Well, at least that shuts him up for a bit. Bernardo can hardly conceal a smile, thinking about the face he would make if he was to tell him that they were partners in crime, too. D'Artagnan seems troubled enough, even without knowing any details. It is not often that he would find him humbled. 

“So? What did you want?” Bernardo prompts him, as he starts walking, thinking to head back to his chambers. He cannot waste so much time on d'Artagnan.

The man follows right after him, without thinking.

“I am here about His Majesty’s fencing lessons.”

“Oh, to apologize for your behaviour?” He is still at his back.

“No.” Bernardo shakes his head to this, but he probably cannot even notice. The cheek! Even though there is a lot to apologize for. “I have some ideas for our tutorial tomorrow.” 

Bernardo stops before the door of his personal chamber and lifts his head up slightly, seemingly confused. His hand freezes into motion before resting it on the knob, then opening it decidedly, assuming that their conversation would be over.

“It is not _our_ lesson. _I_ am the instructor. You were dismissed.” 

He would close the door behind himself, but d’Artagnan thinks that he was invited in, and slips inside. The fact that he is unwanted clearly does not sink with him, since he continues speaking. 

“Oh… I thought you appointed me to be your assistant. Since you took me with you today.” 

“I can do my job very well without an assistant.” I just wanted His Majesty to chastise you for your rudeness, Bernardo adds in his head. 

“Apart from the eye contact, or the right position, or…”

“Just say what you wanted in the first place!” Bernardo yells at him before he could continue the list. 

He heads into his inner chambers where his bedroom is, unbuttoning his overcoat and readying the washing basin for after d’Artagnan’s visit. If he prepares for the night without paying much attention to the man, probably he would finally realize that he was unwanted, and his opinion was not as important as he believed… 

Wait a minute. 

In fact… Was not d’Artagnan seeking his attention for once in a lifetime? Finally? Even if he did it with throwing in plenty of insults as he did so. Bernardo tilts his head and turns back towards the man. 

“Since His Majesty seems to detest the sword so much, I thought we would need a more… playful approach, if we want to keep his attention at fencing for longer than a minute. We could try to play some games with him that would entertain him, but also polish his skills that are needed for good swordsmanship. For instance, I thought…” he trails off, staring at something behind Bernardo’s back.

His hands stop in the middle of unbuttoning his coat.

“… what did you think?” he asks, but he cannot coax a response out of d’Artagnan. He stomps, a little impatiently, and turns around.

“D’Artagnan! Speak. What did you thi…” Bernardo grows pale.

That wretched ribbon is still lying in the middle of his bed, where he left it.


	5. Pillow-talk

Once Bernardo assesses the situation, he jumps in front of his bed, grabbing the ribbon to conceal it behind his back. It is no use, but now nobody can say he did not at least try. Maybe he could not learn much from his uncle all this time, but he is trying to grasp the importance of presentation. In this case, his movements only call d’Artagnan’s attention towards the gown beneath himself he threw under his bed as he undressed in haste upon coming back. He tries to kick it deeper so it would be harder to recognize, but it does not really help.

D’Artagnan already identified it. Bernardo does not need to be too smart to see that he does not like this. 

“You…” the man starts, pale from anger and the shock. “You… committed adultery with _my_ Bernadette?” 

“Ha!? What!?” He is half laughing, half crying at this point. “You truly are a stupid bitch, aren’t you?” 

Where did he exactly think “Bernadatte” went from his bed naked? At this point, even hopelessly simple people would have put two and two together, revealing that there was never a “Bernadette” to begin with. Apart from his d’Artagnan… Who decided to let go of that remaining common sense he was grasping at before and make the stupidest guess one could come up with. 

Why does he have to pine for the kisses of someone so incredibly simple? Why couldn't he choose Claude instead? Or His Majesty? Or... anyone, really. 

Well, there is no other way now. After this, he cannot even put on a dress any time he wishes for d’Artagnan to hold him in his arms and coo lovely pet names at him. It is all or nothing. 

He holds his hair up from the back with one hand, so it would take a similar shape Marie Louise hairdressed it into, then forces “Bernadette’s” feminine, high tone on himself as he starts speaking. 

“There is no wall here!” he exclaims, trying to recreate the scene from earlier that day. 

D’Artagnan stares at him, squinting. Brilliant… perhaps now he thinks that Bernardo saw the scene from one of the palace windows and means to mock him? He tries again, a little more desperately. 

“Oh my, d’Artagnan, the swordsmanship expert!” 

The man opens his mouth, forming a small “o” shape with it, then points at Bernardo. At first, no sound comes out. 

“You…” he says again, which seems to be the only thing he can say consistently for now. “... are _Bernadette_ …?” 

“That’s right, you idiot!” Bernardo confirms, letting his hair down again. 

Before he could continue calling d’Artagnan names, the man makes a funny sound, then falls straight backwards, spreading out on Bernardo’s carpet. He walks closer to him, then pokes his leg and his side a few times with the tip of his boot.

“D’Artagnan? Did you lose consciousness? … That's pathetic. You’re weak.” 

He kicks him a few more times, trying to wake him. When it does not seem to work, he simply walks to his wash basin and gets the pitcher with the cold water in it from this morning, and pours it straight onto d’Artagnan’s face. 

The man wakes up, gasping for breath, choking on the water that got into his nose. 

“Bernardo…” He sits up, wiping the water off of his face. His eyes are watering a little, probably from the coughing. 

Bernardo does not kneel down next to him, only watches him struggle with a self-indulgent smile. It is not often he can enjoy watching d’Artagnan in such a humiliating position. And he needs his fun too, after all. He wishes the man would stay that way forever, so he could enjoy the view whenever he likes.

“There is… there is no Bernadette at all?” Bernardo shakes his head.

“There is only me.” 

It takes a while for d’Artagnan to process that, but then he sighs and gives him a wide grin of relief, his chin creasing. 

“Thank God!”

“... what?”

D’Artagnan lies on his back again, spreading his arms out, like they did on the bank of the Seine. He laughs, ignoring that he lay right back in the water. It seems like a weight was lifted off his shoulders.

“Thank God there is only one!” he repeats himself, pulling Bernardo down by his wrist, urging him to follow. 

He gives in, and lowers himself to his knees, next to d’Artagnan.

“What do you mean only one?”

“I was starting to become increasingly troubled by the handsome Captain.” Bernardo rolls his eyes at him, but it doesn’t really help. D’Artagnan sits up, to be closer to him. “But if there is no choice to make…”

 He cups Bernardo’s face with his hands, as he pulls him close, grinning. Bernardo only stares at him wide-eyed, his own heartbeats distracting him from using his head properly.

 “Do you mind that there is no wall here?” d’Artagnan asks, quite considerately, having learned from earlier. 

“No need!” Bernardo says quickly, a little afraid he wouldn’t be kissed because of a minor thing, like a wall. “… you can be my wall.” 

D’Artagnan giggles in response, and Bernardo, running out of patience, leaps forward, knocking him down on the floor again. They roll around for a while until d’Artagnan presses him down onto the damp spot on his carpet. Then, he starts complaining about the cold, and about d’Artagnan making him too wet.

“You poured the water on me in the first place,” the man reminds him. As he kneels up, he points at his chest, his blue coat and the white shirt underneath also soaked. Right… It is late enough in the day for him to strip the neat uniform and be wearing the garbage clothes again. “I will catch a cold.” 

Bernardo makes a face at him. 

“I hate those clothes of yours,” he complains, as he pulls his man up to a standing position, dusting the jacket off. “… take them off.” 

“Ha?”

“I said take them off, so you won’t get a cold, you stupid bitch.” At first, d’Artagnan does nothing. “It is your Captain telling you.” 

He smirks at him, and undoes the front of his jacket, then slips out of the shirt underneath as well. Bernardo does not even try to hide his curious gaze, scanning the man’s chest thoroughly.

"Oh my..." 

Countryman or not, all his clothes aside, he almost looks decent. (One would not feel too hesitant to leap into his arms.) First, he puts the wet clothes on the back of his chair. Then, taking d’Artagnan’s hand, he leads him towards his bed and shoves him under the thick blankets. 

“I will not sleep with you tonight,” Bernardo tells him before he would get any ideas. He doesn’t want to seem too eager. And otherwise, d’Artagnan will have to earn it, first. Simply kissing a former musketeer gave him a hard time before, so he will surely have to debate this with himself a lot. “I just can’t have you catch a cold, now.”

He finally finishes stripping his jacket off, then slips into the bed beside him as well, drawing close to him. It is a little awkward because they have rarely been so close to each other before – at least while Bernardo was not pretending to be someone else entirely. Oh yes, also, they kind of hate each other.

He traces the silver thread around d’Artagnan’s neck and thumbs the small pendant for a while, curiously. It is too dark for him to see properly anymore. 

“Which saint is this?” he asks, under his breath.

“It’s a lion.”

D’Artagnan also moves his hand, so their fingers would brush against one another as he traces the oval pendant as well. He does so as if he was touching the locket for the first time as well. 

“Why would you have a _lion_ of all things?” Which loosely translates to: why would you have a lion and not a saint around your neck! His uncle’s upbringing does have some effect on him, after all. 

“It was a gift before I left my native place and headed to Paris. From my father, I got his old, trusty horse. And from my mother, I got this pendant as a keepsake. It’s a symbol of bravery.” 

“And you need that, huh? You just passed out on the floor due to shock, like some elderly lady.” 

He cannot tell whether d’Artagnan finds the teasing charming, or he simply laughs to mask his discomfort. After all, one cannot say that he is a strong man if some mildly confusing news knocks him out this way. Instead of answering, he pulls Bernardo closer by his waist and cups his face.

When he smiles at him, his nose wrinkles and his eyes almost disappear. It almost makes Bernardo admit he feels affectionate.

“Why _even_ did you dress up in a gown and came to the hotbed of the musketeers to begin with?” d'Artagnan asks him, still in disbelief. 

“To spy, of course.”

“Spy? In a dress?”

“Men answer to two things: women and money,” Bernardo says proudly, and pretends he did not steal this idea straight from his uncle. D’Artagnan wouldn’t know, anyway. “I think this Athos of yours stinks. So, I wanted to do my own research. My uncle already found out that most of your musketeers do not care about money enough to speak to us, so he would surely care about women, I figured.” 

There is a little silence. Then, d’Artagnan laughs at him, until his tears start flowing. 

“Athos? Oh, Athos does not have much interest in women. You will never find him talking about them, and ever so rarely, talking to them. If we talk about women amongst ourselves, he only tolerates it, but nothing beyond that. One can only guess he does not like women, at all.”

“Ha!? Are there any musketeers who do have a taste for women?” Bernardo asks, outraged. Then, he presents his findings to back up his claims. “Aramis kicks every woman out of his confessional box he finds. Even though he pretends to seek them out and he makes lewd comments, he rejects them under the next breath. You … you know you. Then, you say this Athos has no taste for women, either. Your Jean and Paul are always sticking their heads together, I swear they know nobody apart from one another…”

“Jean and Paul are brothers, you know,” says d’Artagnan, his voice cracking from another fit of laughter he tries to keep in. 

“They are… they are what now? I thought they kept saying that only to use it as a pretext… They look nothing alike!” 

D’Artagnan keeps laughing at him until his eyes are wet again, but he feels like crying real tears of sorrow. What sort of stupid captain does not even know as much of his men to tell which ones are truly brothers? His uncle would not be proud of him at all. Surely, when he reported to him, he did say they were brothers, to look smart, and flaunt how well-informed he was. 

Right, he is not the brightest of his family, but this is certainly shameful. How can he ever recover from this? 

He feels like hiding his face in shame but the closest he can find is d’Artagnan’s chest, so he presses his nose into his skin. The same way he did the first time they met, he thinks. D’Artagnan spins one of his curly locks at the back of his head around his index finger as he speaks.

“And…?” he asks, softly. “Did you find out anything?”

“No. Nothing! A ginger monster and you came in hand in hand and ruined all my plans.” 

That, d'Artagnan certainly finds amusing. He presses his face very close to the man's skin, breathing his scent in, and does not remember much of their conversation after that.

It is unclear whether he or d’Artagnan falls asleep first, but he wakes up in his arms the next morning, slightly confused. He did not send d’Artagnan away in the end only because he dozed off before he could attempt to chase him away. If he has to find a reason why, he will blame it on the warmth of the man’s skin, which was hotter than any fireplace and kept him cosy through the night, and the scent of the sun that lulled him into sleep.

D’Artagnan is still drowsing, but only until he reaches up and pokes his hooked nose decidedly. 

“Get out of my bed!” he bickers, even before the poor thing can open his eyes properly. “You overstayed your welcome already.”

If he kicked him out now, he would suddenly feel too cold, and he knows that well enough. Perhaps d’Artagnan doesn’t: and it is good that way. Instead of complying with his command, he takes Bernardo by the waist and rolls around with him, dotting kisses all over his face. It beckons his dimples to make an appearance, unable to keep a straight face so close to d'Artagnan. They wrestle fruitlessly for a while until Bernardo’s shirt comes off as well, then they settle down, enjoying each other’s company for a while until their duties call them away. 

“It’s strange,” Bernardo thinks, with his face buried in d’Artagnan’s neck, fingers playing on his chest absent-mindedly. “Only a day ago, I could kill you, and I could still gladly strangle you now, I suppose, but then I wouldn’t be able to leap into your arms again.”

“I feel the same,” d’Artagnan agrees, and the confession makes him instantly offended. 

What do you mean you feel the same! You want to strangle me!? He thinks, outraged. If anyone is allowed to hate the other, it surely is him. He will act sullen, and in return, d’Artagnan should revere and adore him. No strangling. 

He props himself up, using d’Artagnan’s chest as support.

“Now, get out of my bed, and get ready for the morning briefing.” 

“Is that how it has to be?” He seems sad, suddenly, beckoning Bernardo to stay. “We pretend we hate each other once we are not in your bed? ... I can't agree with that. I wish we could see a world, where I can openly call you my Bernardo.” 

He escapes from d'Artgnan's grip and jumps out of bed, even though he must use all of his willpower to do so. The man's clothes are hanging from the chair, already dry, and he gathers them up, throwing them in a pile on his face. 

“If it is in front of my family, and my family only, I can openly call you my d’Artagnan,” he claims. Then, he adds, a little less confidently. “… I think.” 

D'Artagnan lifts the clothes off of his face and looks up at him.

“In front of your uncle? Who has a clear distaste for musketeers?”

He watches d’Artagnan dress up, still unable to get enough of the view, then goes to look for his uniform, as well. 

“He knows about me wearing a gown, too,” he admits, and his face flushes a little when he takes notice of d’Artagnan’s grin. He cannot bear to admit that Mazarin perhaps also saw them kiss yesterday. (And seemed to have no malicious comments to share about it.) “He thinks high of you, you know. Perhaps if you were beside me, he would not mind. He said it himself, didn’t he? That he wants you there.”

“I doubt he meant it that way.” 

“And by the way, you are not a musketeer anymore. Or would you go back to your cohort, now that your beloved Bernadette doesn’t even exist?”

D’Artagnan swallows, then shakes his head after some thinking. 

“No. No… Once I got to see more of his playful side, I wanted to stay for the handsome captain of the guardsmen as well.” He stays silent for a while, then continues. “You know… It is true that I followed Bernadette to the palace that night. But it is not exactly why I came here.”

Bernardo gives him a glance, which tells him he doubts this. 

“If there were any people, anywhere in this world who sought my heart, I would go any distance to meet them, you know. After that night, I could feel someone yearning for me, and I mistook it for Bernadette, wishing it was her, feeling the same way as I do. So I came to this palace and did whatever I had to do to be able to meet her,” d’Artagnan confesses. “Little did I know, it was you all along.” 

Bernardo looks away and punches him in the arm at the same time. “There was no yearning! I was only lamenting that you had to kiss me.”

The man shakes his head, certainly with a flavour of disbelief, but lets him do as he pleases. 

For now, when they step out of Bernardo’s quarters, they pretend as if they were not holding each other all night. D’Artagnan goes back to his own chamber, to change into his uniform as well, but draws him to the side before he would enter his room.

"By the way, Captain,” he says, with a cheeky smile Bernardo loves to hate so much. “What I said about His Majesty and his lessons… You should think about it. I would be happy to assist you.”

 Bernardo puckers his lips up. Surely, it is tempting. On the other hand, if d’Artagnan corrects his stance one more time, kissing or not, he will thrust a sword through him and leave him bleeding on the ground. Cheeky countrymen like him just beg to be stabbed with everything they do. And it is always so hard not to grant their wishes.

Then, again, it is just another reason to have d’Artagnan beside him for longer. “I will let you know.”

After the briefing, he visits his uncle, who is in the middle of plotting something with Philippe, heads stuck together as they exchange whispers on a chaise lounge. When Bernardo asks, they graciously show him a portrait of Maria Theresa, the queen of Spain. Philippe thinks she is comely, and Mazarin finds that fortunate. It won’t be a challenge then, he says. No force.

Bernardo shakes his head, unable to follow the conversation.

“Isn’t Maria Theresa supposed to be His Majesty’s betrothed?” he asks.

“His Majesty is not keen on political marriages. So, until we see whether it is a match, I had a suggestion.” He gives a pointed look to Bernardo, before continuing. “His Majesty could build himself a reputation for having no taste for women, to cover for his indifference towards Maria Theresa, if he should not find her adequate enough.”

Bernardo looks away.

“And how would that help the engagement with the queen?” 

“Surely, a political marriage is nothing more than a peace treaty between countries. If it came to the king and queen being indifferent towards one another, Maria Theresa might feel more at ease about this alliance if she was to know that His Majesty had no taste for women. Then, Philippe can be here to console and entertain her.”

Bernardo nods along, but in all truth, he does not really understand the logic behind his uncle’s words. He is often grateful that other people are doing the thinking for him and he only needs to steal their ideas and pretend they are coming from him. Being a Cardinal is difficult. Being the captain of the guardsmen is loyalty to the Cardinal in most parts, and some minor self-conduct in others. Which mostly accounted for his mistakes. 

“But you do not need to worry about that my love,” Mazarin adds, when he sees that his nephew is quite troubled, trying to figure out what all of this information means. “What you need to worry about is d’Artagnan. Do you remember what I asked of you?”

“Yes, uncle. To watch d’Artagnan for you.”

“I am told you and d’Artagnan are getting familiar with one another.” 

He wonders what exactly that means – and supposes his uncle is referring to having seen them kiss in the garden the other day. His face already feels too hot, so he tries to slightly change the subject from kissing to fencing. 

“I might have him accompany me to teach swordsmanship to His Majesty. He gathered some ideas… ever since he was sacked.” 

“That is good.” His uncle takes it a lot better than he would have imagined in the first place. “Spend time with him. As long as he is by your side, he is certainly not plotting anything with the former musketeers.” 

That is how it happens that Mazarin advocates this… affair. Even though, he never exactly says it. Then again, he never exactly condemns it either, just as he never condemned Bernardo putting on a gown and kissing musketeers in the garden. What he criticized was the stupid way of picking a fake name when doing so.

“With the arrival of the queen of Spain and her entourage, we will have our hands full,” Mazarin reminds him before he would go back to his assignment. “We cannot have any oversights. And as little dress-up as possible. Please, leave that for a time when things are not so chaotic.”

Bernardo lowers his head and pretends he did not hear the request. His uncle stands up and places a warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing it a little, in a fatherly manner. 

“Now, go… you young wolf. Soon, you have a lesson with His Majesty.” He bows then leaves the saloon.

On his way back, he sees Claude, who seems to have a hard time looking him in the eyes. He remembers then, that poor thing must still be thinking about the duchess of Montpensier and her gown on Bernardo’s floor. Right. If he thought Claude was having an affair with Montpensier, he also would avoid making eye contact with him. 

His sisters were graced with vicious, mean tongues, and they often sharpened it on Montpensier, when she was not in hearing distance. Some other times, they would even do so when she was in the same room, or standing next to them. Bernardo understands how unpopular she is. He also understands that the implication of being in a love affair with her is probably outright worse than admitting that d’Artagnan stole his first kiss the other night on the bank of the Seine. 

In any case, it is still difficult to explain himself. He cannot just simply tell Claude that he borrowed the dress for himself, after all. Instead of explaining himself, he calls out to him, pretending to ignore his discomfort. If he does not address it, it is not there.

“Any news about the former musketeers? I hope you are not off your guards. Soon enough, we will be too occupied with the arrival of the queen. That will give them a perfect opportunity to strike.” 

“Aramis and Porthos haven’t moved since my last report,” Claude reports, conventionally staring at the space above his captain’s shoulder. “We sent men to Toulouse to hunt him down, but he disappeared without a trace.”

That leaves him feeling uneasy. Even if they know that this Athos is up to something, knowledge is worth nothing, when you cannot pin him down. Mazarin will not be impressed if anything was to happen and his guardsmen just let it pass by. Perhaps with d’Artagnan on his side now, he can inquire about his friends. Although, even Bernardo sees that it would be absurd to expect him to reveal anything about his friends. Even if he left the musketeers, for now.

He stomps with his feet, frustrated.

“I need you to apprehend this Athos, wherever he is. Even if he is dead, you will unearth him and make sure he cannot make a move against His Majesty,” he tells Claude. 

“Perhaps he decided to leave the country and enjoy his freedom? Maybe he is not a threat.” “Apprehend him. In that case, he will surely not be a threat.”

Claude excuses himself with a bow, vowing to find Athos, no matter where he disappeared to. Surely, Mazarin will also be grateful for their service. It will also mark the first time Bernardo could successfully do something, without having his plans crossed by others a few times beforehand.

Before long, it is already almost noon, and he has not gotten anything done. Jean and Paul meet him in one of the hallways, trying to fit in a new set for the Sun King ballet into one of the saloons for His Majesty to practice with. He fleetingly thinks about Marie-Louise and cannot help but feel for her. Pretending to enjoy the dance is not doing any good to her delicate nerves. Behind them, d’Artagnan brings the new, feathered headpiece, golden, and yellow.

“D’Artagnan! Well, that sure looks disgusting,” Bernardo thinks.

“We were told by His Majesty’s attendants to take these up. They completed the final design for the ballet.”

He nods towards the other two.

“Leave it with them, and come with me.”

D’Artagnan does so and follows his captain, who leads him down to a less busy hallway. Again, the black uniform looks a thousand times less unacceptable than the clothes he wears in private. 

“Athos,” Bernardo says, without trying to mask the reason he called d’Artagnan to the side. “My men are looking for him, but he is nowhere to be found.” 

It takes a while for d’Artagnan to realize that he is the one they are expecting answers from. At first, Bernardo thinks he would deny it from him. Then, he exhales loudly and speaks up. 

“When I last talked to him, he said he would go back to his native place to teach swordsmanship to children.”

“Rumour has it that he returned to Toulouse, but we are unable to trace him.” 

“So our findings align then,” d’Artagnan says. “He is a private man. Even when we were in Paris, he detested showing his face. You should not feel worried about him.” 

“Alright, you little swordsmanship-expert. I wasn’t worried, to begin with,” Bernardo lies, but immediately feels better. D'Artagnan must know, after all. That calms him. 

He nods, then continues walking towards the antechamber of His Majesty’s practice room. When he realizes that d’Artagnan is not there with him, he turns back and calls out to him. 

“What? Are you not coming? I thought you had some ideas to help the king be on better terms with his sword.” 

“I thought you were still thinking about it.” 

“I made my mind up about you! Come.” He impatiently waves at him, beckoning the man to follow. 

D’Artagnan catches up with him quickly and draws him to the corner for a moment. He has never seen eyes clearer than this man’s: not a single shadow. Perhaps he stares too intently because d’Artagnan shakes his head and looks around to check if they are being watched. Then, with a cheeky grin, he steals a kiss from his lips, before opening the door to the practice chamber, greeting His Majesty.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, if you made it this far, thank you!
> 
> If this ending did not seem to bring any closure to you, then I have good news because there is a second part already in the making. If this ending was/seemed plausible enough, that is good as well.
> 
> In any case, you will surely find the following part on my account in a while, so please check back if you like.
> 
> Also, if you were perhaps wondering, d'Artagnan makes an "o" shape with his mouth before saying "you" is because I made most of these conversations up in my head in Japanese and he is saying "omae."
> 
> I took the lion pendant detail from the October Graph. Takasumi Hayato and Harumi Yuu admitted that their characters were brothers in one of the interviews with the guardsmen, this is why I keep using this.
> 
> As for Athos, I reached as far back as the book, where he is also described as a man without any interest for women, as I am sure some of you know (although that is due to a heartbreak, I believe).


End file.
